


Icarus, Falling

by amyoatmeal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Cancer, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming of Age, Dean and Cas Used to Be Best Friends, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Punk Castiel (Supernatural), Quarterback Dean Winchester, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyoatmeal/pseuds/amyoatmeal
Summary: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak used to be inseparable -- best friends who used to spend all their free time together-- but sometimes people change.On paper, Dean has the ideal life. Nice house, nice family, cheerleader girlfriend, and the new senior status of being quarterback of his high school football team. He seems to have it made. But when his mother’s illness takes a turn for the worse, Dean's picture-perfect life starts to crumble and he soon realizes he has nobody he can turn to except the one person he never thought he’d turn to again.Castiel lives with his alcoholic aunt at the Pine Hill Trailer Park Community, dealing with wounds that should have long since healed, meanwhile having his own addictions to contend with just to keep his head above water.  Though soon he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew about Dean Winchester, a person he'd long since grown to hate, when it seems that he's just the 'nobody' Dean's been looking for.This is a story about falling apart and finding your way back together.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters, Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester
Comments: 104
Kudos: 107
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this WIP sitting in storage for months and I decided it wasn't doing anybody any good collecting dust, so I've brushed it off. 
> 
> This fic deals with some heavy topics from drug abuse to homophobia so tread lightly. Though the first chapter deals with Dean and Cas as children (14 and 15 respectively) nothing actually happens, and the majority of the fic they are of legal age (18 and 19) it can be assumed the other side characters are as well. I've chosen not to use warnings just because none of them really fit, but I'd rather people be cautious going into it anyway just for the heavy themes.
> 
> Think of this iteration of Cas as being something akin to Endverse Cas.

__

__  


_Castiel read once that it took 120 seconds for a car to fill with water, but in actuality, it took no time at all. The air pocket he’d been using to breathe was swallowed up in a few frantic gulps before the engine body sank with a groan. There was a dull, resounding thud as the car ricocheted off the rocky bottom, and then suddenly they were floating, weightless, like landing on the surface of the moon._

_The more he floundered in the backseat, the heavier his limbs felt. He hadn’t learned how to swim yet. He was too young. “Next summer,” his mother had told him. And eventually, he stopped, because it occurred to him that aside from the silt and debris stirring around them, he was the only thing still moving._

_He was going to die._

_He should be panicking, but he wasn’t. He was mesmerized by the way his body felt like nothing. By the way the billowing coattails of his father’s trench coat whirled and danced with the long, dark tendrils of his mother’s hair, mixing the dark, dirty water even darker with blood. The only thing getting through to him was the glimpse of one working headlight on the bridge— like a breathing hole poked in a tin can._

_Polaris is the brightest star in the northern hemisphere, his father told him once. In order to find it, one must simply look up._

**THE SUMMER BEFORE NINTH GRADE**

“Cas, wait up!”

Dean was breathless when he came to a halt, hands falling to rest on his knees as he gulped in air, but Castiel kept right on running.

“No,” he called back on a laugh. His backpack bounced on his shoulders as he cut a path through the thicket. “Keep up! You’re losing again!”

They’d played this game together more than once—who could get to the treehouse first—admittedly not very inventive, but it was tradition. Dean started up again at a slow jog, but Castiel had already climbed the rope ladder by the time he came to stop at the bottom of the old oak tree.

“Took you long enough,” Cas ribbed. He shined the flashlight down from the opening in the floor, illuminating the cheesy grin splitting his face. “I’ve been here for hours!”

“Yeah, well, you cheated,” Dean sighed. “You always cheat.”

“No way! You’re just slow!”

“It’s cheating when you always get a headstart!”

“Maybe you just keep losing.” Castiel laughed and offered out a hand to heave him up through the opening. They fell back on their backsides, collecting themselves, until Castiel shuffled off his backpack and flopped down again with an over-exaggerated rush of breath. “Man, beating you all the time is exhausting.”

“Shut up, Dork,” Dean said with a punch to Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel snorted to himself, eyes lazily surveying the dusky violet sky, as he took stock of the visible stars through the crown.

The Little Dipper was directly overhead through the skylight window. The North Star - Polaris - was the brightest star visible in the Northern Hemisphere. The Big Dipper wasn’t so far off, and further just between a thinning spot of branches, part of Casseopeia could be seen if you squinted. Dean only knew this because Castiel told him once, but it was more the way he’d talked about it, thoroughly absorbed and over-excited, that made the information stick. Castiel was always teaching him things like that. They were in the same grade, but Castiel was a year older. He was held back a grade when he moved out here and Dean knew it wasn’t because he was dumb like he always claimed. If anything, it just meant he had a year's worth of extra brains.

The wood floor was digging in against his spine as they laid shoulder to shoulder, but it barely registered. Against the fading light of the sky, Castiel’s blue eyes were practically glowing, and not for the first time in his relatively short life, Dean got lost in them a moment too long. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought Polaris looked pretty dim in comparison. But then Castiel’s head lolled to the side, catching him in the act, and his mouth quirked in fond confusion at whatever dumb expression was showing on Dean’s face.

Hesitantly, he smiled. “What?”

Dean could feel the heat rising in his cheeks when he finally turned his sights away. Suddenly hoarse, he cleared his throat a bit before he spoke. “Mom says you can sleep over again tonight. I mean, if you want to.”

“You know I want to,” Castiel replied thoughtfully, “I always want to.” He sighed. “Kind of wish I could just live up here, you know?”

“What, you mean in the treehouse?”

“In the treehouse,” he affirmed.

Lightly, Dean snorted. “Why?”

“I dunno. Why not?” Castiel shrugged, eyes still soaking in the sky. “I like seeing the stars. Too many porch lights at the Park.”

Dean couldn’t really argue with it. This place was their place. No Sam’s allowed. And it was the only place Dean felt like he could be himself; he supposed maybe Castiel must have felt the same way.

“Can we sleep up here tonight?”

Dean peered over at the earnest expression visible on his face by growing moonlight and considered it, teeth worrying his lower lip. He could feel Castiel watching his profile intently when he looked back ahead. “I mean, we’d probably get in trouble,” he reasoned.

Castiel laughed outright at that. “Well, it's not like your dad’s ever liked me anyway.”

“That's not true! He's just... like that.”

“Yeah. Just like that...”

“Glad I’m nothing like him,” Dean said almost as an afterthought. Lately, he felt like he’d been saying that a lot.

“You and me both.”

“Don’t tell him I said that though. He’d probably have a stroke.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll remember to save that for our next heart to heart,” he intoned. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” With a snort, Castiel sat up and reached for his backpack, unzipping it to reveal a nearly depleted bottle of Dean didn't even know what. He regarded the bottle warily, glass glinting in the silver light.

“What's that?”

“I dunno... Found it in Nancy’s cabinet. The off-limits one,” he said, exaggeratedly wagging his eyebrows. Taking it in hand, he turned it around and used the flashlight to examine the label. “Some kind of vodka, maybe?” He pulled an uncertain face and laughed. “But, hey, it's still summer, right? We should celebrate or something!”

“What are we celebrating, exactly?”

“Whatever we want! We’ll be starting high school in a few weeks. Seems as good a reason as any.” Castiel took a healthy swig, but when he swallowed his face promptly folded in on itself.

Dean threw his head back against the floorboards and a laugh burst out of him. “So, how is it?” he asked, shoulders shaking as he reeled it in.

“Fuck you,” he gasped, offering it out to Dean. “It’s fucking awful. I dunno how she drinks that stuff all the time.”

“Idiot.” Sitting up, Dean accepted it, eyeing the wet mouth of the bottle. “I think you're supposed to mix it with something,” he offered to stall.

“Really?”

“That's what my mom does.”

“Huh,” Cas thought on it, “Well, Nancy definitely does not.”

“Party on, Nancy,” Dean joked before finally taking a burning sip and sputtering. “What is this, rubbing alcohol!?” The taste stuck on his tongue. Grimacing, he emphatically thrusted the bottle back to Cas. “Dude, you can have it.”

“Not like there's much left.”

Castiel scooted back against the wall with a scuff and suffered through another more demure sip. Dean was rapt in his own thoughts, watching the way Castiel’s facial expressions shifted and contorted as he drank it, and Dean was humming a nonsensical tune. Metallica, maybe. But this was what he liked best about hanging out with Castiel. The fact they could just be themselves together without any pressure to be anything else.

“Hey,” Castiel said after a while, and Dean met his eyes only for him to chew pensively on his lip and deflect. “Nevermind.”

“You know you can’t do that to me,” Dean teased. An awkward smile tugged at his lips and for some weird reason he felt nervous. “Spit it out.”

“It’s nothing,” he lied, nervously running fingers through his perpetually messy head of hair. “Just, I dunno...We’re going to be high schoolers soon… Like really soon.”

“Yeah, thought that’s why we were ‘celebrating’,” he pointed out with a laugh.

Absently, Castiel hummed and shuffled to get comfortable again. “It’s weird,” he finally admitted after a beat.

“What? Why? It’s just more school.”

Sheepishly, he shrugged again and took another sip, mulling it over for an inordinately long time. So long Dean almost thought he forgot the question. “Cas,” he nudged him with the sole of his shoe to get his attention, “What’s weird?”

Castiel wouldn’t look at him. “I guess... I just never thought about it much. Never really thought I’d get here,” he said with a vague hand gesture.

“Where, the treehouse?” Dean joked, but Castiel looked uncharacteristically serious. The way he only got when they were alone and something was really eating at him.

“No.” His focus shifted to peeling the label on the bottle and he waited, lining the right words up on his tongue. “I see it sometimes. The accident. I see it in my head and I think, sometimes, I— Sometimes, I think I was supposed to die with my parents.”

Dean’s mouth parted to speak, but nothing came out. Nothing sounded right. He was just grateful the impact of his stare wasn’t on him at the moment. What was he supposed to say to that anyway? He couldn’t think of one damn thing good enough, so he stared at Castiel’s downturned face, at his chewed fingernails peeling at the label, then to the muddy soles of his own sneakers against the floorboards, without saying anything at all.

But eventually he crawled over to sit beside him against the wall, shoulders knocking together once he’d settled in, and he wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. “’M glad you didn’t,” he mumbled. It was a gross understatement and it came out a thousand decibels quieter than he’d thought it.

“Why?”

“Cuz then we never woulda met,” he said with a half-smile, and one of those small, secret smiles tugged on the corner of Castiel’s lips to match.

“Me too,” he said, but Dean could tell the gears in his head were still turning. He didn’t prompt him to speak, and honestly, Dean was a little scared to hear what else he had to say. So they sat in the quiet, Dean’s arm around him, Castiel leaning into it, listening to the peeper frogs, until he inevitably started up talking again. “Do you think… Do you think we’ll be friends?”

“What do you mean? You’re my best friend, you know that.” Hell, everybody knew that. They got teased enough about it to last a lifetime.

“I mean in high school. Do you think we’ll still be friends? Like... say graduation rolls around, are we still going to be up here doing this?”

“Yeah, course,” he said, brows scrunching as he tried to follow along, “Why wouldn’t we?”

“I dunno. Sometimes people change.”

“Well, I’m not planning on changing anytime soon.”

Castiel hummed, taking it in. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Gotta warn you, though... Dad’s gonna force me to join football, I know it. It's all he talks about. So as long as you can put up with that, and as long as you come be my cheerleader, I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

“Your cheerleader?”

“Yeah, unless you wanna play too. I mean, you're faster than me. Could always try out too, I guess.”

“I hate football.”

“Yeah, me too,” he admitted.

A lengthy pause stretched between them and, somehow, the silence felt even heavier than it did a moment ago. “But you’re right,” Castiel conceded, “Between the two of us, I'd look better in a miniskirt.”

“Shut up.” Dean shouldered him again. Almost without thinking, he asked, “Hey, you think high school girls will wanna kiss and stuff all the time?” It was something he found himself wondering a lot the last couple weeks and for some reason the idea was still borderline terrifying.

Castiel laughed, eyes creasing. “Of course! About as much as the boys, probably.”

“Sure, maybe,” Dean said, wordlessly trying to puzzle out what that was even supposed to mean. “Have you, uh, ever kissed anyone before?” The question was out of his mouth before he could do much to stop it and for whatever reason he found he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Of course I have.”

His stomach sank. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, “Once. Before I moved here. This girl April Kelly kissed me up against the cubbies in kindergarten,” he confessed, dissolving into a fit of infectious giggles.

Dean smiled. He couldn’t really help it. “That’s bullshit! That doesn’t count!”

“Of course it counts! A kiss is a kiss!”

“Maybe. Half a kiss, if we’re counting.”

Castiel took another sip, impishly smiling at him over the mouth of the bottle. “Have you?”

Dean could feel himself blushing and he already regretted the question. “No, uh, nah. Never. You woulda been the first person I told if I had, probably.”

“ _Probably!?_ ”

In his mock despair, Castiel spilled vodka down the front of his shirt and uttered curses under his breath. Turning the flashlight on to see the damage, he muttered curses and shed the shirt without any explanation. It was a dorky one with Albert Einstein’s face on it, one he always used to wear before middle school started and he started getting picked on just for wearing it. When he was freed, flashlight rolling around on the floor, his hair stuck up like an electric shock-- not much different from Einstein-- and his cheeks were flushed.

Dean laughed at the sight of him. “What is wrong with you?”

“They’ll smell it on me,” he reasoned, ditching the t-shirt in the corner. “It’s fucking cold up here though. Can I borrow your sweatshirt?”

“Dude, it’s August.”

“I didn’t invent altitude, Dean!” His teeth were chattering just to accentuate his point.

Dean rolled his eyes. “One of these days, you’ll just bring your own,” he sighed, grouchily unzipping his Led Zeppelin sweatshirt and handing it over.

Cas grinned and enthusiastically accepted the offering. “Oh man, you warmed it up for me and everything! Aw, Dean, you shouldn’t have.”

Dean rolled his eyes again, but by this point, he was used to it.

Not before long, the conversation inevitably rounded back to girls. Dean nudged Castiel to share the backwash at the bottom of the bottle and he did, passing it over without comment, as he continued his tirade about all the girls in their grade he would consider mature enough to even be into that sort of thing. And Dean wasn’t really listening to the names, as much as listening to the way Castiel was saying them. The way his mouth shaped words and the giddy way he grinned when he thought he’d made a particularly good joke. And Dean found himself grinning right along with him until he directed the conversation back to him.

“Hello? _Earth to Dean?_ Are you even listening to me?”

“Uh, what?”

“I said Meg Masters would definitely be down for more. Who would you wanna kiss?”

Dean sheepishly brought the bottle to his lips to buy him some time, but after burning his throat, he was no better off than he was before he took a drink. “Um, nobody I guess. Never really thought about it—kissing girls I mean,” he confessed, desperately trying to laugh it off, but Castiel wasn’t laughing with him. He should’ve just made up a name. Any name. But it was too late.

The silence was a tangible weight and Dean knew he phrased that all wrong, but Castiel was already processing it. He tilted his head, studying Dean’s reaction closely when he gently asked, “What about a boy?”

The only sound between them was the peeper frogs hiding in the trees and the sound of Dean’s heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t seem to do anything, but stare— eyes wide and unblinking. His stomach felt like it was preparing for a revolt.

“What?” he managed to croak before his throat closed up.

“Have you ever thought about kissing a boy?”

“I’m not gay!” he quickly defended.

“Neither am I.”

“Then what are you tryin’ to say, Cas?”

Castiel shrugged, but he didn’t look away. His expression was entirely unreadable in the dark. “Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Dean swallowed around the uncomfortable tightness in his throat. “Why would I do that?”

“I dunno! I mean… you can... if you want to.”

Maybe it was the shitty vodka Castiel brought, or maybe it was just something that’d been eating at him for god knows how long, but he was curious now and he had to know. Just on the off chance things did change and they couldn’t do whatever it was they were doing out here once high school rolled around.

“Cas...” Without disrupting the stillness, he asked, voice as soft and quiet as a whisper, “Do you _want_ me to kiss you?”

Contemplating, Castiel’s gaze traveled from Dean’s terrified eyes to settle on his parted lips. They were already sitting too close, shoulders already brushing, and their faces were less than a foot away, when he murmured back a simple, “Depends.”

Dean gulped, butterflies welling up in his stomach. His throat had gone as dry and rough as the desert. “On?”

“On whether or not you want to kiss me too.”

“Too?”

Castiel nodded, a barely discernible dip of his chin. He was still staring at his lips, and maybe looking back, in a fever dream, Dean could imagine he was leaning in just that much closer. “So, do you?”

_You know I want to. I always want to_ , his mind echoed back to him.

It was an infinitesimal amount, barely there even if you squinted, but he knew he was leaning in too, they both were, breathing in the other’s air. He could feel the word forming on the tip of his tongue.

“I—” He swallowed desperately again.

Just his eyes fluttered shut, a booming echo split the charged air between them and reminded him to fall back. Heat lightning. A voice just like his father’s jolted him, filled him with an overwhelming sense of dread, until he realized it was his father off in the distance, calling them back to the house before the storm rolled in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted you all to get a better idea of where the characters are at, so I decided to post chapter 2. What can I say I’m impatient lol.

**PRESENT — SENIOR YEAR**

Castiel was out of weed and just about everything else.

The cigarette pinched between his fingers was dwindling to a dull ember so he sucked down a lungful of warm, dry smoke before stubbing it out with the sole of his boot. He hated the smell and the lingering traces that stuck to his clothes, his skin, his hair, but it was quelling the jitters that always came in the interim.

It’d been approximately 48 hours since he last did a line of oxy. He knew this because he did it over the sink in the bathroom after Chemistry class just before the pep rally. Mr. Garrison was reviewing the Periodic Table of Elements for the third time this week and all that droning got him to thinking, and all that thinking got him to really needing something to wipe the slate. All he had was the last of his aunt Nancy’s pilfered oxy and nothing better to do. Perhaps that was exactly how he found himself out here on a Friday night, shivering by himself just this side of the treeline, watching a rousing game of high school football. He’d long stopped asking himself why he came to these things, figuring he really didn’t care to know the answer, but it was a ritual by now. 

His nose was already dripping. 

Overwhelming cheers consumed the crowd when the opposing team lofted the ball through the field goal post. Truth was Olathe South sucked. Castiel might not be well-versed in the topic of high school tackle sports, but he’d seen enough of this stupid one in particular to know the other team was crap. And yet they cheered anyway. And loudly. High school football was way too important to this town. The crowds were so loud he almost missed the faint ringtone trilling in the pocket of his jeans. 

With numb fingers, he fished the thing out and squinted against the bright spot in the dark, sagging when he saw the caller ID. 

Begrudgingly, he held the phone up to his ear and flatly answered, “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about you,” his only sort-of girlfriend purred in his ear.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Did you hear anything yet?” he asked with an inelegant sniff. 

“Well, hello to you too, Clarence. You really do sound like dog shit.” She still had the decency to act offended by his behavior after all this time. It was cute. Sometimes. 

“Hello, Meg,” he replied wryly. “So, did you?”

“No—“

He laid back in the dirt with an exaggerated groan. 

“Let me finish!”

“I’m listening.”

“Crowley’s looking.”

“Oh, god, leave it to anyone but Crowley—” He was being shushed over the line again. He bit his tongue, albeit painfully.

“As I was saying… Crowley’s looking into something that seems… promising. In fact…” The door clicked behind her and he heard the familiar dip and groan of her mattress springs. “...They want to meet up tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?! That’s too fucking long, Meg!” 

“Yes, Clarence, believe it or not, drug dealers schedule appointments after normal business hour. But there’s a catch.”

“When isn’t there a catch,” he muttered to himself. “Well, what is it?”

“They want to send me and Crowley on a delivery run. You can’t come.”

He frowned up at the sky, and pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Uh, may I ask why the fuck not?”

“Because,” she started, her voice laced with something Castiel couldn’t place, “It’s complicated.”

“It’s complicated,” he parroted, clearly unamused. “What, they don’t trust me?” They knew he was jonesing; Crowley must have ratted him out. And honestly? He didn’t trust himself either. 

“Look, they didn’t give specifics, they just said not to bring you along, and considering you’re not in a position to argue, I would do what they say. You do want the stuff right?”

He did the math as quickly as he could without really trying. It was longer than he wanted to wait, but it was manageable. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

“That’s what I thought.”

Idly counting the stars through the trees, he sighed heavily to himself at what a gigantic mess of a human being he’d turned out to be. “Are we finished here?”

“That depends,” she teased, “I was hoping you’d changed your mind about coming over tonight. I could really use the company.” 

“What kind of company?”

“You know what kind.” In the distance, the crowd was cheering again. Another field goal kick. Must be the fourth quarter. Accusingly, she asked, “Where even are you right now?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere sounds awfully lively.”

“Does it matter?”

“Considering you told me you couldn’t come over because you felt like a ‘flaming bag of dogshit’ this afternoon… it matters a little. Clarence, are you at a party I don’t know about? Should I be putting my panties back on for this?”

“I’d rather you not.”

“Rather I not come or rather I not put my panties back on?” He was pointedly silent on his end of the line. She huffed into the phone, wanting to be mad, without knowing what to be mad about. “So, you’re really not going to come over?”

Castiel craned his neck to stare out at the field. They were still playing. Going into overtime or whatever. He weighed his options carefully. 

On the one hand, he could hop on his bike right now to go fuck her on the off chance it might help alleviate his symptoms. On the other hand, he’d always stayed till the end of every football game this stupid school has ever hosted on sheer stubborn principle alone. He glanced down to his groin and noticed, with a weary sigh, his dick was laying there just about as uselessly as he was. 

“I’m busy,” he decided, not without hating himself a little more for saying it. “I’ll fuck you tomorrow.”

“My very own Prince Charming,” she boredly intoned, and Castiel could feel the accompanying eye roll from there. The subsequent dial tone was all the answer he needed. 

Pocketing the phone, he gave a muted laugh at his own self-inflicted predicament and sat up, head swimming from the rush. Suddenly, he felt the delicate warmth of something dripping down his face. He wiped his long nose on the back of his hand and, when he came away, it was streaked with bright, fresh blood. 

24 more hours. He could do that.

He didn’t really have a choice.

*****

Dean was breathless, air stolen from his lungs in sharp bursts, as he clutched at the cramp in his side. 

It was a close match tonight, but they won the Homecoming game against Olathe South by the grace of God, a couple Hail Mary’s, and thanks entirely in part to Dean’s ability for landing a touchdown by the skin of his teeth. The bleachers erupted in a wave of sound, but he was seemingly disconnected from it, mind swimming in much more troubled waters. Heaving himself upright in the grass, his uniform was sticking to him like a second skin, but fuck if he wasn’t going to fight his way through the matching cramps in his thighs to celebrate the victory with his teammates. The sudden force of them all colliding with him almost knocked him off his feet again. 

“Win-ches-ter! Win-ches-ter!” 

The chant caught fire all the way up to the nosebleeds and just in this moment, Dean allowed himself to get caught up in it. He smiled up at his parents and his little brother Sam watching on from the bleachers and he waved to them with the scant energy still stored in his reserves. They bumped fists with the players from Olathe South, customary congratulations, some not so friendly accusations made on either side, while others met up with people waiting in the wings. 

But Dean was simply going through the motions. 

The team bounded toward the locker room not long after to change out of their uniforms and wash away the sweat and kicked up dirt caked on their faces. It smelled like ass and body odor and piss and he couldn’t hear himself think in there with all the other guys shooting the shit about their big win and how sour the Olathe South guys looked about losing to them again. 

As Dean headed for his locker, the congratulatory claps to his shoulders and teasing towel whips to the ass were enough to coerce a reactionary grimace and a head shake out of him as he removed the helmet sticking to his head. That game took a lot out of him. More than usual. He recounted all the trivial ways he could have done better as he removed his heavy shoulder pads and was already mentally preparing to hear backseat coaching notes from his Dad tomorrow morning over breakfast. But for the moment, he was lost in thought. So much so that he almost missed it when his best friend Benny sidled up to the locker beside him and started trying to shoot the shit with him too. 

“You get knocked in the head one too many times out there, or what?”

Dean chuckled. “Sorry, what?”

“The party tomorrow at Gallagher’s… ? Are you in or out?”

“Uh,” Dean shook his head again, searching for the correct answer. Maybe he really had gotten knocked in the head one time too many. “Uh, out, I think,” he finally decided.

“C’mon, Winchester. Where’s your school spirit?”

Dean shrugged, forcing a half-smile. “Not really up for a party this weekend, man. Besides, Singer’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“You sure about that?” Benny removed his own uniform and shoulder pads, stuffing them into his neighboring locker, and Dean subconsciously tracked the movement before remembering to look away. “That ain’t what Lisa was tellin’ everybody after the pep rally the other day. Said you were really gung-ho about it.”

Dean groaned deep, thumping his forehead against the cool metal of his locker door, and closed his eyes. “Of course it wasn’t,” he muttered. Anything to drag him out and parade him around. 

“Figured she was lyin’.”

“Well, she can just go without me, right? Won’t even know I’m not there, I’ll bet.”

Benny laughed outright at that. “Yeah, right. Surefire way to become single if I’ve ever heard it.”

Dean sighed, picking himself back up. “Gotta drive her home tonight anyway, might as well break her heart in one fell swoop,” he joked. 

“Dean Winchester, the Heartbreaker? You don't have it in you.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Not even a little bit,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’m washing this stank off me. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow, brother,” he added with a wink and another overzealous slap to his ass.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek and lowered his head to hide the blush blooming across his freckled nose. He swallowed dryly and willed himself to remain calm, cool, and collected as he peeled out of his pants to follow suit. 

*****

The Impala pulled up along the curb across the street from the Braeden residence. It was a modest house, not too different from his own, with a porch and a fence and a yard. The engine was idling almost as much as Dean was. Idly, he tapped his thumb against the leather steering wheel and cleared his throat. 

“So, uh, did you enjoy the game?” he asked for lack of anything better. Outside the car, crickets chirped in the bushes.

“Yeah, I did,” she said with a broad smile, “You were amazing out there tonight.”

Smiling shyly in return, Dean bowed his head to hide his blush. If anything, he’d been pissing himself more about the prospect of Lisa inviting him inside again than the party he was unwittingly going to tomorrow. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just be honest with her, but he’d been trying the whole drive over and now here they were and he wasn’t saying anything worth a damn.

“I do what I can,” he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Reaching across the seat, she toyed with the collar of his shirt, watching as his blush spread up the back of his neck. “I think you can do better than that,” she teased with an insinuating smirk, scooting herself closer.

Lisa was beautiful. Long, dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes. Head cheerleader. The apple of almost every guy in the school’s eye. She laughed at his stupid jokes too— Most of the girls at school did, actually, whether they were funny or not. Asking her to go steady when the summer ended had been easy, but the prospect of it had filled him with unequivocal dread. It wasn’t as if he’d truly dreaded the thought of rejection, more that he knew she was going to say ‘yes’. And girls like Lisa... Well, they expected certain things. 

Aside from the light illuminating the porch, Lisa’s house was dark. It was getting late, minutes pushing closer to curfew the longer he dawdled out there. What was he putting off? 

Just tell her you don’t want to go to the party, he mentally scolded himself. 

“Lisa, look—” Trying to focus on where to start, he was startled when Lisa’s hand skimmed over the top of his thigh and inched dangerously close to the center of his lap. Her lips brushed the outer shell of his ear and Dean’s legs quivered, throat going dry. “Lis—” He cut himself off with a low groan, head falling to the back of the seat, and eyelids fluttering closed when she made contact. He forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose. 

“You could come up,” she murmured against his ear, “If you want.”

“Your parents are home,” Dean protested pathetically.

“They’re asleep. They won’t hear us.”

She undid the button on his jeans, fingers fiddling to catch hold of the zipper. The slide down caused his stomach to knot. He figured he should want to. Hell, what red-blooded American male would turn down an offer like that? 

As it turned out, just Dean. 

Covering her hand with his own, he pushed it away. With a gulp, he stammered, “Lisa, I can’t tonight, okay? It’s late. I gotta get home.”

“It’s only curfew,” she reasoned, “you can be a few minutes late.”

“Okay, well I ain’t a pro, but I know it would last longer than a few minutes—” He gasped when she attempted to reach down the front of his boxers again. “Lisa, I’m sorry,” he tried, “I just can’t tonight.” 

She retracted her hand as though it were scalded.

Reaching out, he took it and gently squeezed some vague form of apology. “I’m just tired, you know? Singer’s been taking it out of me and the guys the last couple weeks getting us ready for the Homecoming game and it’s just been a lot.” He didn’t dare broach the topic of home.

She sighed. “I know, Dean.”

“Next time, I promise,” he said, brushing his thumb sweetly over her cheek and trying for a smile. He found he promised that a lot. 

“I’m holding you to that, Dean Winchester. One of these days, I’d like to have sex with my boyfriend again.” 

Dean hummed. “Boyfriend, huh? Can I meet him sometime? See what I’m up against?” 

She tried to glower and pout, but her lips turned up in the corners and she rolled her eyes at him like she usually did. “Shut up,” she said with a nudge before scooting back to her side of the seat. She laid her hand on the door handle, fixing to get out, but she sat still for a moment, pondering. She looked over to him then. “You know, you’re not like the other guys… Most of those guys on the team, they’re just after the one thing. That’s what I like about you, Dean. You’re different.” 

Self-consciously, he dipped his chin and maintained his blush, staring down at the steering wheel. “I like you too, Lis,” he stammered. He looked over to her expecting some form of response, but she didn’t respond. She just smiled, leaned in for a goodnight kiss, and got out of the car. 

If anything, ‘different’ was the one thing he made it a point not to be.


	3. Chapter 3

The doorbell chimed just as Dean finished setting the table. 

“Dean, honey, could you get that?” his mother Mary called from the kitchen. Distantly his father echoed the sentiment from the garage in a far harsher tone.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, refraining an eyeroll. 

He spent a second swapping around the silverware and refolding a cloth napkin before he made his way over to the front door. He straightened the tie his Mom forced him to wear in the mirror before opening the door. 

A tie in his own goddamn home. For Bobby of all people.

Pulling the door open, he greeted Bobby with one hand outstretched for a firm shake. “Coach Singer.” Bobby was wearing his usual worn out ball cap, which only served to make Dean feel even more ridiculous, and his right hand was occupied. 

“Boy, get that outta here,” Bobby said, pushing the hand away. He tugged Dean into a weird, one-armed, half-assed hug complete with manly clap on the back.

“Hey, Bobby, c’mon in,” Dean chuckled when they parted. He wasn’t really used to getting hugs from people other than his mom, but for whatever reason, Bobby always insisted. 

Removing his cap, he squeezed past Dean into the entryway. “Good to see ya.”

“You too, Bobby. Uh, Dad’s in the garage. Sam’s glued to his Gameboy, per usual. Mom’s just finishing up the roast,” he explained, closing the door. “I’d offered to help, but I was shooed away, so.”

“Sounds ‘bout right.” Bobby hung his ball cap on the hook as he did every time he was invited over, and then Dean led him further into the living room to take a seat while they waited for dinner. 

Dean sat anxiously bouncing his knees and gnawing at a hangnail as Bobby took a seat on the other end of the sofa and started watching the TV. He always got anxious when Bobby came over for dinner just because he knew his Dad would ask in depth about his schoolwork and the playing schedule, and just generally about all the things Dean wanted to forget about. And he really didn't want to rehash his win from last night again either; they’d done that enough over breakfast. 

Restlessly, Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair and stood. “Want a beer or anything?”

“Don’t mind if I do, boy.”

With a nod, Dean headed into the kitchen. The smell of meat and potatoes hung in the air and he was tempted to pick at the food on the counter, but he went straight for the fridge instead. Mary was standing over the stove doing whatever it was she did to the roast and it smelled just about done as she was eyeing him grabbing two beers out of the fridge. 

“One’s for Dad,” he defended before she even started.

“What’s for me?” John asked, coming in from the garage. His hands were covered in motor oil and he wiped them on a rag. Dean offered out the beer for him and he shoved the dirty rag in his back pocket before taking it. “Like you read my mind.”

“Told ya,” Dean muttered to Mary under his breath, rolling his eyes. She smiled.

“Car’s all taken care of,” John started, taking a swig of beer, “I swear, you forget to change her oil one more time and I’m takin’ that damn thing back, you hear me? Gotta learn to take better care of her. If I’d’ve thought you were gonna let her get crappy, I wouldn't have given her to you in the first place, son.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean grumbled, eyes averting towards the floor.

“Swear you'd forget your own ass if it wasn't attached.”

Mary finally turned to look back at them and when she spotted her husband, she gasped. “John, you’re filthy! Go on upstairs and change before we eat.” 

“It’s just Bobby,” he tried to argue. They’d been good friends since high school. But at the no-nonsense look on Mary’s face, he’d learned over the decades to back down pretty quick. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, bringing the beer with him.

“Why doesn’t he have to wear a friggin’ tie?” Dean asked once John was out of ear shot.

At his scolded expression, Mary crossed the kitchen and laid her hands on his shoulders, searching to meet his eyes. “Now, Dean. Don’t let him get to you, honey. He won’t actually take the car,” she said sweetly, bringing a hand up to cup his face. “You know your father, he’s all talk.”

When Dean met her eyes he tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite make it there. “S’not that,” he said, leaning into it. “Just wish he’d get on Sam’s ass as much as he gets on mine.”

“Language,” she tutted. “And he will, eventually. That’s just how he is. He just wants what’s best for you.”

It took everything in him not to roll his eyes at his own mother. What John wanted and what Dean wanted were two entirely different animals. “Yeah, I know. Just got a funny way of showin’ it sometimes.”

Mary hummed her agreement. “That he does.” She smiled warmly and pulled him down to kiss his forehead. “Now, go drag your brother away from that video game thing and tell him dinner’s ready.”

“You got it.”

For some reason, Sam didn't have to wear a friggin’ tie either.

They miraculously managed to make it through dinner without mentioning fucking football. Almost. The second John’s fork clattered against his empty plate, he was leaning back in his chair, spinning his beer bottle between his fingers, and eyeing Dean before he fixed his attention on Bobby. 

“So, Bobby… How's our boy doing?”

“Same’s usual,” he replied with a casual shrug. “Not kickin’ him off the team anytime soon, so that's somethin’.”

“Yeah? And how’re the grades?” He was asking Bobby, but his eyes were trained on Dean again as Dean purposely bored holes into the table.

“S’far, s’good,” Bobby supplied. “Actually, funny you should mention it…”. As if his father didn't mention it every time. He reached down to paw around for the bag set at his feet before handing it off to Dean across the top of the table.

“What's this?” Dean asked, confusion and excitement welling up inside him. He looked to Bobby and then Mary who already seemed to be in on this whole thing.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Well, look inside, yah idjit. Not gonna open itself.”

Reaching inside, Dean grabbed a fistful of soft leather, and without even lifting it out of the bag, he already knew. “You’re kidding...” 

“I wanna see,” Sam griped next to him. 

Ignoring him, Dean marveled down at the thing in his hands. “I thought… But you said—”

“Came in late. Your last name’s too dang long. Figured I’d just bring it on over.”

“What is it, honey?” Mary obliged encouragingly.

Disbelieving, Dean choked out a laugh and let the bag slip away to the floor, holding onto his brand new letterman jacket. Soft, black leather sleeves with a maroon wool shell. He held it up for everyone to see and flipped it around in his hands just to turn wide eyes on the word ‘Winchester’ embroidered across the shoulders. 

“Oh, John, it looks just like yours,” Mary cooed, eyes going all soft and wistful. 

John barely made a peep from the head of the table. Face as stoic as ever. “About time,” he said simply. Maybe a small smile that Dean would miss if he weren’t searching for it his whole life. He couldn't even remember a time he'd heard his Dad say anything else. 

“We’re proud of you!” Mary exclaimed. 

Sam was grinning wide next to her. “Yeah, Dean! You did it!”

“Congratulations, boy,” Bobby added, tipping his beer to him. 

A slow, processing smile turned the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, guys.” He ran the pads of his fingers over the stitching. Over the letter ‘L’ on the front breast. Holding one of these things in his hands after studying and playing his ass off after all these years was surreal to say the least. This had been one of those milestones that John was always harping on him for. _‘You gotta get your letterman’_ he would always say. _‘You gotta be just like me’_ was more like it. School never really came naturally to Dean and he had to work twice as hard to maintain his grades as most of the other guys on the team, but even if he didn’t really care about football as much as his Dad did, Dean could admit, just in this moment, maybe he was a little proud of himself too.

“Your father used to wear his jacket around all the time,” Mary reminisced, smiling across the table, “I always thought he looked especially handsome in it.”

“Gross,” Sam said with a grimace, and Dean had to stifle a snort.

“Hey, watch it,” warned John, pointing a finger at Sam around his beer bottle. “You take after me more than your mother.”

After dinner and way too many pictures, Sam somehow managed to evade helping do anything, per usual, and John and Bobby headed out to the garage to talk shop. His Dad was fixing up another classic, a ‘65 Rambler, and he went out of his way to bring every conversation back around to it. Which just left Dean and Mary to take care of the dishes, but he didn't really mind. Secretly, he kind of loved the opportunity to spend time with her just the two of them. They fell into quiet conversation between washing and drying. About Dean’s new jacket mostly, about his homecoming win without pointing out his faults, his Mom giving him the proud look in place of the one he’d expected his Dad to give him among other things.

“How did my hair look tonight?” she asked eventually. She always asked these days. It was part of the routine now.

Dean didn't even bother appraising. “Looks good, Mom,” he said, on autopilot, “Real good.” He lifted a hand and fixed a couple strands falling over her eye, trying his best for a smile. 

She smiled back at him, though he could see it in her eyes it was just as forced as his own.

This wig looked nothing like her real hair, his mind was practically screaming it, but he promised to act normal. It was short and wavy and artificially blonde. It sorely reminded him how much he used to like brushing her long hair for her when he was a kid, before his Dad told him he had to man up, and he supposed, maybe that was why she only asked him nowadays. But he’d never tell her anything different, despite the fact she chose to shave it off. 

Dean was drying the casserole dish when she changed the subject back to him. She asked if he had any plans for this evening as she handed off the next dish. 

“Actually, yeah,” he huffed, “Got, um, got a date. I mean, if that's okay?” 

“I think for the star player we can let some things slide. As long as you don't do anything illegal,” she admonished, in an attempt to seem stern —something she hardly ever was. 

Dean chuckled, taking the next wet plate from her. “Nothin’ illegal, got it.” He’d kind of been hoping she'd tell him he couldn't go, actually. 

“Do I know this one?”

“Uh jeez, Mom, I dunno. There’s just so many it’s hard to tell ‘em apart. It’s like a revolving door, y’know? One right after another,” he joked with a laugh at her unamused face. ”I’m going with Lisa, Mom. Relax. You’ve met Lisa. We worked together over the summer? Been going out a few weeks now?”

The creases in her forehead ironed out. “Oh, yes. I remember now. Where are you two going?”

On the fly, Dean lied. “Movies. Gonna see that new horror flick— Been meaning to check it out.” He knew she wouldn’t ask because she’d always hated horror movies.

She nodded and set her sights on the sink. Thoughtfully, she said, “Lisa’s a nice girl.” 

“Yep. And what else?”

“No, I think she’s good for you!”

“But…”

Mary sighed and admitted, “I just think you could do better.”

Dean laughed. “ _There it is._ ”

“There's what!”

“You say that about every girl, Ma!” He laughed again when she looked like she wanted to protest. “Not plannin’ on gettin’ hitched right after graduation like you guys neither, so don’t even go there. It’s casual. We’re just… seeing what happens.”

Mary gaped. “I wasn’t! You kids and your ‘casual dating’. I don’t even know what that means and I don’t think I want to.” She resumed washing, really lathering up the next dish, before bothering to ask, “Hey, you know, I ran into Nancy Novak last week at the store and I was thinking... whatever happened to that boy Castiel?”

The rag Dean was using froze mid-circle. She hadn’t asked about him in what felt like years, but must have been even longer. “Uh, what about him?”

“Well, you boys used to be practically inseparable.” 

_Yeah, in middle school_ , he wanted to say, but she kept right on talking.

“Could never get you two away from each other. Used to sit up in that tree house for hours talking about God knows what. Never knew what you boys would get up to or how you even found that much to say. He hasn't come around in so long, what's he up to?”

Dean gave a noncommittal shrug. Honestly, he couldn't remember what they used to talk about either anymore. Resuming his drying and ignoring that weird feeling settling in his stomach, he said, “I dunno. He's around, I guess. Have a couple classes together.” 

“Are you two still friends?”

“Uh, no. _No_ ,” he stressed, “Don't really talk to him anymore.” Not if he could help it. “Not since ninth grade,” he estimated, more or less.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” And she really meant it based on the way her mouth turned down at the corners.

Dean huffed another laugh, wanting to desperately explain why she might change her mind on that, but then, the door to the garage opened and John was heading to the fridge for another round of beers. 

Coming up to the center island, he asked “Don't talk to who?” as he popped the caps off the bottles.

“That boy Castiel,” Mary answered for him. At John’s puzzled face, “The one who lives just over at Pine Hill, who’s parents died in that accident.” 

Mary rolled her eyes at her husband’s still blank face. “The one who used to come around here all the time after school.”

“You mean the queer? Never did like him.” 

All of a sudden, the ugly floral design around the rim of the plate Dean held had become particularly interesting. 

“John!”

“Yeesh, sorry I asked!” 

John held his hands up in surrender and grabbed the beers, retreating to the safety of his garage and leaving behind a weird, palpable tension settling in his wake. 

At least, it was to Dean.

Mary shook her head and resumed her washing as she continued, “Anyway, Nancy and I got to talking and it reminded me of that barbecue we had way back when and it just got me reminiscing is all. He really was such a sweet boy. If you see him around, you tell him I’d love to see him some time. See how he’s doing.” Like that was ever going to happen, but Dean didn’t have it in his heart to tell her to her face how much he’d changed. . 

Dean remembered that barbecue too. 

It had been hot that day. Real hot. 

They cooked burgers in the backyard and somebody had brought sparklers over to mess around with. He distinctly remembered the sparklers because the two of them swiped a box from the back porch and ran with them through the woods. Probably would've burnt the whole damn treehouse to the ground if Castiel hadn't burnt his eyebrow and tossed them out the hole in the floor. 

It was a good memory. Back then, Castiel had always made him feel like they could do anything, like they were invincible. Hell, back then he probably would’ve believed they could get away with murder ... But it was a good memory, even if that was all it was.

Dean was checked out of the conversation, absently lost in thought about sparklers and car accidents among other long repressed things, but he nodded along to her anyway, making the appropriate noises, and taking the last dish to stack on the drying rack. “I’m, uh, I'm gonna head out soon,” he said, once he finally registered she’d stopped talking. 

“Okay, honey.” Pulling her yellow rubber gloves off, she reached out to give him a hug. “Just want you to know, I really am proud of you, Dean. Your father is too even if he's too much of an ass to admit it.”

“I know.” Dean sighed against the top of her head and smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Mom.” 

“I love you,” she said as they pulled away.

Dean’s playfully rolled his eyes, but his smile widened just that much more. “I know, Mom. Love you too.”

*****

They were fucking late. 

Again.

Castiel anxiously paced his cramped bedroom for the better part of an hour, questioning if they were going to show up at all. He wouldn’t really even be surprised if they forgot about him honestly, but the jitters under his skin were making his bones rattle.

The hollow sound of canned laughter drifted in from the other side of the makeshift wall— another game show, another sitcom left unwatched— and the sound was grating on his last nerve. He was far too sober to be dealing with this shit right now —to be dealing with anything for that matter— and just as he thought on it his hands began to shake. Falling back on the bed with an irritated huff, he contemplated texting them again, eyes narrowing against the glow of the screen in his otherwise dark room, but once he saw the beam of two squared headlights shining through the broken blinds, he shot off the bed. 

Crowley’s beat-up old Cadillac ate gravel outside his trailer as they pulled up. 

_Fucking finally._

“Nancy,” Castiel called out as he sniffed the armpits of a rumpled t-shirt he found on the floor. “I’m heading out!” 

In his haste, he checked his pockets and secured his phone and wallet in the ass of his ripped jeans, but when he didn’t get a response, he heaved a frustrated sigh. Tripping his way through the door, he slipped into a pair of heavy boots and found his aunt in her usual fleabag recliner in front of the TV with a drink in her hand and a new bottle of pills on the small table to her left. Totally dead to the world. 

At the sight, Castiel rolled his eyes. 

“Nancy.” 

Coming up to stand over her, he grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking. “NANCY.” He practically shouted it at her, loud and even, but she didn’t react. Reaching his hand up to her face, he tapped her cheek, lightly at first, but progressively harder, and when that did nothing, he hovered his palm over her parted lips just to make sure she wasn’t actually dead. 

She was fine, he decided at the first sign of life. Just high off her ass on… What was it this time? He reached for the orange bottle and turned it in his hands to read the label. It was dark in there too, the only light source coming from the intermittent blue glow of the TV set on commercials. He had to squint to read it. Some kind of painkiller. 

_Yet another painkiller_ , he mentally corrected. For those non-existent pains. 

Castiel popped one himself before pocketing the bottle as he started for the door. Grabbing a sweatshirt on his way there, he paused just short of it, and rounded back to take the half-drunk glass of vodka from her hand to wash it down. He shot it back with practiced ease and plunked the empty glass on the side table with a subtle hiss. And just for safe-keeping, he pilfered the half-drunk bottle too.

“See ya, Nance,” he muttered to himself, pulling his hood up, and then he was out the door.

It was dark. The sky was pitch black and the moon was hidden behind the feathered clouds. No stars in sight. Outside, Crowley and Meg were waiting for him in that rusted-up, piece of shit car as the gravel crunched under the soles of his boots. 

“Hey, assholes,” he greeted with a toothy grin. 

Behind the wheel, Crowley grinned back once he spotted the outline of him in the dark and cranked his window down lower. “Get in loser, we’re going shopping!” 

Castiel rolled his eyes; Crowley thought he was funny most of the time, but he very rarely was. “Please. Out of the three of us, I'd be Regina George. You're more like Gretchen Wieners.” He spotted Meg crawling over the center console to get in the backseat and climbed in the back with her too.

“I like to think of myself as more of a Karen. Sluttier. Bigger tits.”

“Like you ever get laid.”

“If you’re Gretchen and Karen, who am I supposed to be?” Meg asked once she was settled.

“Janis Ian,” they replied in unison.

“What! Why?”

“Excessive eyeliner and bitchy personality,” Crowley snarked. He wasn’t really wrong.

“And because you have a big lesbian crush on me.” 

Castiel grinned at her unamused face, unabashedly leaning in for a kiss that quickly devolved into something else. Before he knew it, she had her fingers entangled in his hair and his tongue darted messily into her mouth. His hands roamed rampantly. Honestly, he’d been a little hard before he even got in the car. When they started making noises, Crowley rolled his eyes and obnoxiously cleared his throat as he put the car in drive.

Pulling away after a long minute, voice slightly rough and breathless, he wiped the saliva from his lips on the back of his sleeve. “So, where are we going?”

“We’re going to Gallagher’s,” Crowley said, “Bastard’s having a party or whatever.”

“Right... and you care about high school parties because…?”

“Because, Choir Boy, I have some personal business to attend to. It’s a mutual exchange of services. Quid pro quo. Besides, who doesn’t love a party?” 

“Plenty of people.” Actually, he used to hate parties. Being around a lot of people in general. Still kind of did. “And you could just say you’re going to buy weed like everybody else.”

“Could… If that’s all I were doing.” Crowley flicked his directional and made a turn. “Need I remind you, you're still in high school then?”

Reluctantly, Castiel made an unimpressed acknowledgment in his throat. He really didn’t need to be reminded of that. “You know, you also could’ve fucking told me you assholes were going to be late again, by the way,” he muttered, once Crowley had gotten onto the main road. “I was crawling out of my skin back there.” 

“Apologies, lost track of the time,” Crowley replied, eyes meeting in the rearview. The bastard didn’t seem sorry in the slightest. “You can blame your girlfriend for that. She’s the one that needed to go back. Practically forced me to make a pitstop. But then, maybe she’s willing to share?”

The two of them exchanged knowing glances through the rearview, Crowley’s gleaming, Meg’s unreadable, and Castiel narrowed his eyes suspiciously between them, a smile slowly spreading the corners of his lips. “What is it?” 

Coyley, she shrugged. “I dunno if I wanna tell you.” 

“Meg.” He turned to face her in the backseat and asked her, tone goading, “What do you have?” 

Purposely aloof, she stared out the window, pretending to ignore him altogether. At that, Castiel pounced on her, tackling her down on the seat and eagerly grabbing at her pockets and tickling her sides. She squealed and kicked at him and managed to wriggle out of his hold, laughing at him as he hovered over her with increasingly pleading eyes. 

“C’mon, show me!”

“Jesus, you’re like an overexcited puppy.” Slipping her hand between them into her own tight jeans, she came up holding a dime bag pinched between her fingers. A thick line of white powder settling at the bottom.

Castiel’s eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline. “Holy shit...” She smirked up at him, face entirely too pleased and illuminated with the passing of headlights. “How’d you fucking score this?” 

When he tried to snatch the bag out of her hands, she swatted at him. “Down, boy,” she purred in that lazy, sultry way of hers, pulling it just out of reach. “If you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll share.”

“Oh, yeah?” Thrusting the bulge in his jeans against her lap, he asked lowly, “How nice do I have to be?” 

“That’s up to you,” she said, grabbing his hips by the belt loops and pressing them together. “How badly do you want it?”

“Hmm…” Castiel considered it with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’d say pretty fucking bad.” 

This was a game they played often. It usually only had one result: Castiel getting high and coming. Sometimes the opposite. But the anticipation was killer. 

He emphatically ground the front of his jeans against her lap and she pulled him down by the back of his neck into a kiss. They moved against each other within the cramped confines of the backseat, his hands wandering lower to grope at her ass pressed against the cloth interior, and her fingers automatically going for his belt buckle, undoing it teasingly slow. Sliding past the hem, she finally took him in her hand and Castiel bit his lip in an effort to stifle the low moan building in his throat. 

“Fuck,” he gasped. 

“Hey!” Crowley barked from the front, eyes flitting between the road and the rearview. “I just cleaned the upholstery from the last time! This isn’t your own personal fuck-mobile so keep your bloody hands to yourselves!”

Castiel snorted loudly against the hollow of Meg’s throat, remembering that last time vividly. “Fuck off, Fergus,” he sneered, roughly tugging her shirt collar down to suck a mark to that one spot she liked above her breast. She moaned softly into his ear when his palm pressed against the heat between her thighs, warm and welcoming. She spread her legs wider to encourage him until they’re rudely interrupted again.

“Let me reiterate: There is to be absolutely no more fucking in my car!”

“Later,” Meg said with a breathless laugh. She removed her hand from the front of his jeans and pushed at his shoulder to put distance between them.

Castiel sat back in a daze to look her in the eye and scoffed, looking positively wounded. He could feel his balls turning blue at the mere idea of having to wait for some non-disclosed time known as ‘later’, but with another over-exaggerated huff, he relented. Now he was aching and in desperate need to get high. A winning combination.

“So is that why you never get any?” he snarked to the front seat, adjusting himself in his pants. “Thought it was just your personality that deterred everyone, didn’t realize it was a hard rule.”

“Actually, it’s a choice, thank you very much!”

“A choice?”

“No one’s good enough for me,” he quipped.

“Yeah, that sounds right. I’m sure that’s it.” 

Castiel was staring out the window, watching the lights blur together as they cruised down the main street, when Meg insistently nudged him in the arm. Irritably, he looked over to her and scowled, but then down to her hand, offering out that tiny bag of powder. She smirked when a triumphant grin broke out on his face, taking hold of the bag. 

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” he teased, “It’s not even my birthday.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“You know me, I would never!” 

He took it between his fingers and opened it carefully, as not to waste any. He dabbed the tip of his finger on his tongue and dipped it into the powder before bringing it to his nose. He snorted it quick, pinching his eyes shut, and jerkily rubbing his nose through the initial discomfort. Pressing the bitter remainders to his tongue, he gave her another bright grin and crossed his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

Andy Gallagher’s house was a looming brick structure at the dead end of a cul-de-sac. Dean killed the engine a few blocks away and sat there in the dark for what was probably way too long, thinking about way too many things for someone about to head into a party. About friggin’ hair of all things. About his Mom’s hair and everything that happened in between to get him there, to get him here, and he told himself he wasn’t going to cry tonight because crying was for babies. He’d repeated that like a mantra for the past few months, every time he found himself on the verge of tears with no one to turn to but himself. Especially on those nights after chemo when his Mom got sick and he had to help her or the times when he wanted to help her and she wouldn’t let him. She was stronger than that, that’s what she kept saying. Tonight had been one of the good ones. So he wouldn’t cry. 

Strong people didn’t need to. The voice that kept telling him that sounded suspiciously like his father’s.

Still, he sat there and debated with himself over just starting her up again and going home, and he might’ve if that weren’t much harder to explain. Really, he was only there because Lisa told him to be. Dating the head cheerleader sometimes had its drawbacks; attending house parties together apparently being one of them. Honestly, he couldn’t give any less of a fuck about any of this, but sometimes you had to give a little to get some. 

He chewed his thumb nail, already worn down to the nail bed, and scanned the street, watching the people funnel into the same house he should already have been at over an hour ago. Scrubbing his palms over his face, he exhaled hard, but decided to get this whole thing over with. 

It was cooler than usual for the last week of September, but it was not unwelcome; a slight breeze whistled through the branches overhead as he climbed out of the Impala and shut her door with its signature rusted hinges. The party was already in full swing as he approached the house. There was a group of people hanging out on the front steps with full solo cups and there were a few already-drunk people making out on the lawn. He waved awkwardly as he passed them. He never really was any good at parties.

Inside, the house was crawling with people. Rooms seemingly overflowing with bodies. How Gallagher knew this many people was beyond him; Andy Gallagher wasn’t exactly considered one of the ‘cool’ kids, just cool by association because of his side career as the guy with the good weed. He wasn’t even sure this many people even went to Lawrence High. Navigating his way through the crowd, a few coherent kids started chanting in unison, “Win-ches-ter! Win-ches-ter!” Apparently, knowing people wasn’t going to be a problem here. He gave his best pageant smile and a few acknowledging nods as he weaved his way past to find his girlfriend. 

After a few minutes of what he considered valiant searching, he gave up when he spotted his best friend Benny and a couple of the other guys from the team taking up space in the living room.

“Hey, assholes,” Dean greeted over the music. Taking the free spot next to Benny on the couch, he nodded over to the other guys, Gordon and Victor, as he sank into the plush leather cushions.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Benny shouted over the music, seemingly overjoyed at Dean’s entrance and sparking the business end of a joint. He took a hit before passing it off to Gordon. “Boy, has Lisa got you whipped,” he said, squinting through the cloud of purple smoke. “Never thought you’d actually show your face at a scene like this!” 

“Guess you thought wrong then.” 

“What happened to Dean Winchester, the heartbreaker?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean pulled out a flask of straight whiskey he managed to swipe from John’s liquor cabinet from the interior pocket of his letterman jacket. It was the cheap shit that tasted like gasoline and burned the back of your throat, but free’s free, and Dean figured John wouldn’t miss this one. He choked back a healthy swig for himself before offering it up to the others, but they declined, knowing full well how awful it really was. “Suit yourselves.” He clicked his tongue and took another burning sip.

“Hey, look at you with the jacket though,” added Benny with a low impressed whistle. He clapped him on the shoulder as the other’s congratulated him too, and Dean smiled and actually blushed a bit at the unprecedented praise. Especially since Victor and Gordon already got theirs the tail end of junior year.

The three of them bantered between each other about the game and other stupid shit while Dean just sat and watched the party unfold. Taking in the sounds. Taking in the occasional sip from his flask and convincing himself he was still searching for his girlfriend of all people. Maybe he was, but he was searching for something else too. 

“Yeah, how’s that goin’ by the way, Dean-o?” Gordon asked, passing the joint across to him, but he missed the question.

Contemplatively, Dean accepted it. “What, you mean with Lisa?” He took a quick hit even though he knew he shouldn’t, narrowing his eyes against the burn of the hazy purple smoke.

“No, with the Queen of England,” Benny joked.

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t really take her as the slummin’ type,” said Gordon.

He held the smoke in till his eyes watered and started to burn his lungs. “Hey, fuck you,” he coughed, “I’m a goddamn catch.” 

“That why you’re sat here with us instead of findin’ your girl?” Victor nodded towards the kitchen and Dean followed it. Sure enough, the cheerleaders were grouped off and chatting with a couple other guys from the team. One of them looked pretty keen on Lisa, his hand was on her arm while they laughed about something together. School spirit or whatever. 

“Looks like Michael found her first, man,” he ribbed and Gordon and him fell into laughter of their own, “What are you gonna do?”

“Nothin,” he conveyed with a shrug. 

“What, you’re not gonna go over there and kick his ass? Shit, I probably would if she were my girl.”

Most guys would feel threatened. Dean supposed maybe he should too, but he didn’t really feel much of anything about the situation. He watched them a moment and shook his head. “Nah, man, we’re just, y’know, having fun. Fucking. It’s casual.” 

There were enough rumors circling the rumor mill about Lisa Braeden to last a lifetime. Dean was pretty surprised when he learned most of them were actually true. Besides, Lisa didn’t really like him, she just liked the idea of him. Dean knew that and he was fine with it. Because, in reality, he just liked the idea of her too.

He passed the joint off to somebody else before he could do anymore damage to himself. “I tell you one thing though,” leaning in, he conspires, “She’s definitely ‘head’ somethin’.” He over-exaggeratedly wagged his eyebrows and Benny tittered and nudged him, and the other guys busted out laughing and giving him more congratulatory claps on the shoulder, more vigorous than for any old letterman jacket. The shameful feeling corroded his stomach, but he smiled all the same. 

Eventually the others decided just maybe they did want a little of the swill Dean packed. The air was still hazy and it smelled like weed and cheap alcohol. The music was too loud to even think about anything else, so they just melted into the leather. Gallagher’s father was a lawyer or some shit and it showed.

Benny broke the silence again as he gave Dean back his flask. “Oh boy, here we go!”

Dean casted Benny a side glance where his head was heavily resting against the back of the couch. “What?” 

Someone was calling his name, but it sounded a lot more like a drunk “Deeaannnnn!” High pitched and piercing.

When he turned his head forward, Lisa was making a beeline from the kitchen towards the couch with a drink in her hand. Before he even registered what was happening, she threw herself in his lap and kissed him hard on the mouth. She tasted like too many Mike’s Hard and he didn’t really have much time to kiss back before she pulled away. “Oh my god! When did you get here?” 

“Not too long ago,” he lied, pushing her long, dark hair out of his face.

“Why didn’t you come find me, silly! I’ve been looking all over for you!” 

He wasn’t 100% on that, but he knew for a fact in the time he’d been sitting on this couch, she hadn’t moved from her spot in the kitchen, flirting with Michael of all people. Talk about slumming. 

“Sorry. Ran into some of the guys,” he explained sheepishly, motioning to Benny and the others.

“Oh my god,” she gasped again exaggeratedly, like she hadn’t even realized there were other people around them, “Hi, guys!” Dean could tell by the glass in her eyes she was already a couple sheets to the wind. “Do you mind if I steal my boyfriend back now?”

“All yours.”

“Have at ‘im.”

Benny and Victor stifled their laughter at Dean’s expense and Gordon tried to look up her shorts when she bent down to kiss him again. Being the gentleman he believed himself to be, Dean slid his palms up the backs of her thighs and covered the gap in her shorts. This kiss turned sloppier than before somehow, but when she pulled back this time around, she was tugging at his wrists to follow her back to the kitchen. “Dean, c’mon!”

“Jeez, Lis, hang on! Where’s the fire?” 

Dean collected his flask and grabbed the phone that fell out his back pocket before facing her again. He heard Victor and Benny muttering behind his back, something like “just fuckin’, my ass” and he had to roll his eyes at that. But it occurred to him then that maybe he was wrong about this arrangement afterall. 

“Alright, alright,” he relented with bit of a chuckle at her insistence. “Where we goin’?”

“Beer pong!” she shouted over her shoulder as they slipped their way past everybody. 

Benny got to his feet too and followed them into the kitchen to find his girlfriend Andrea— Another one of the cheerleaders socializing in the middle of the room.The center island had been set up to play and Dean had to admit, he’d only played this game a couple times before and wasn’t entirely familiar with the rules. 

When Dean came up to take his spot, Michael sneered. “Finally decided to join us, Winchester?” He had a smug expression, and Dean didn’t really know what it was about him, but every time that kid talked he had an all-consuming desire to punch him in the face. 

Ignoring him, Dean reached for the ping pong ball on the counter and tossed it between his hands while they recited the rules. 

*****

“Oi, Choir Boy!” 

With a hand in front of his face, Crowley snapped his fingers to catch Castiel’s attention. 

The action caused Castiel to flinch. 

“How’re you feeling?” he mumbled around the end of his cigarette. The glowing ember was bright against the night sky, pale smoke dispersing in the breeze.

Truth be told, Castiel couldn’t feel his face and he wasn’t entirely convinced he even had one anymore. That had been the first thing to go, but he knew he was grinning. Warm all over. His arms tingled and his legs were a little bit like jello too. Definitely grape, not cherry. He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing right now, but he found he didn’t really care yet. Right now, he didn’t really care about anything and it felt fucking fantastic. 

He tried to shake the fog from his brain, but it made the picture fuzzy and he laughed. 

“Mmmh, what?” he found himself asking, distracted.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley enunciated, rather obnoxiously. 

Castiel spoke English. At least, he was pretty sure, but he was having trouble listening, watching instead the fascinating way his friend’s mouth was moving upside down. Unless Crowley was speaking a different language that Castiel suddenly understood now too... 

He cleared the thought and a laugh bubbled up and out of his throat. A wide, toothy grin spread across his face again and he blinked rapidly a few times, the question finally catching up with him. “Feel so good,” he slurred lazily, “I’m up. Definitely. Like all the way up.” He turned his sights on Crowley and Meg again, blue eyes almost entirely black and entirely too wide, who were looking down at him with entirely too much concern on their faces. “Oh no,” he startled, “What's wrong?”

“We’re fine…” Meg said slowly, like weirdly slow, “But I don’t think you are.”

Castiel scoffed at the insinuation. “I’m great,” he asserted.

“Clearly,” muttered Crowley. His patience wearing thinner by the second. He checked the time on his phone and scanned their surroundings carefully. 

Castiel was laid out on the front lawn, looking up at the empty sky, and he wasn’t sure how he got here or where here was, but the cold air on his face felt pretty fucking good too. Polaris should be straight ahead. He didn't know how he knew that or where the fuck it went, but he just knew it. He was more sure of that than anything else right now. But right here seemed okay even if he wasn’t sure where here was. Better than okay, even. He could probably live here if he wanted to. 

“Where are we,” he wondered aloud, almost dreamily.

“We’re at Gallagher’s house, where the bloody hell else would we be!?”

Castiel hummed to himself. “This place feels so fucking good. Like, just right here,” he said, sinking his fingers into the soft grass like strands of hair. Sweeping his arms wide, he started making a snow angel, but there was no snow and the soft blades of grass between his fingers tickled more than anything. Castiel outright giggled at the sensation. Like tiny feathers stroking the backs of his hands. “I’m fucking flying, you guys!” His tongue tripped over the words in his mouth. “Can you see my wings yet? They're beautiful,” he said in awe, dragging the word out.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I came outside for this!?” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and set his jaw. “Right, stay there,” he said to him, patting his knee and taking another drag on his cigarette. “A word?” He turned to Meg and leaned in and Castiel couldn’t really hear what he was saying, just watched the cloud of smoke drift on by. They moved a few feet away and Crowley’s arms were flailing about, urgently whispering to cover his rage. “What the fuck did you give him!”

“What do you mean, what did I give him?” she asked incredulously at Crowley’s reddened face. “Don’t get mad at me! Al told me it was fucking blow,” she defended in her own urgent whisper. “They must have cut it or something, I dunno! I'm gonna fucking kill him next time I see him!”

She sounded nervous, but Castiel had no clue why. He was feeling extremely good right about now. He rolled over onto his stomach and clutched at the ground in an attempt to hug it. “Who cares,” he muffled into the grass, but they weren’t even listening to him.

“Fucking great,” Crowley muttered into the palm of his hand. “You called me out in the middle of a deal and now I’m supposed to play babysitter to a bloody snow angel all night!? I hope you’re happy. Your favorite plaything has officially ruined my evening yet again!”

“He only did a few bumps! Don’t be so fucking dramatic!”

“Look at the stupid bastard!” He emphatically pointed at Castiel who looked a lot like he was trying to lazily swim breaststroke in the grass. “We’ve been out here with him like this for the last twenty minutes and he’s not coming down so apparently, it doesn’t seem to matter how much, now does it!” 

“You’re the one that told him I had it!”

“We don’t even know what ‘it’ is!” Crowley turned the finger warningly on Meg and threatened, “If anything happens to him, this is completely on you. Now let’s just get this the fuck over with.” 

Crouching down by his head, Castiel smiled up at him, grass clippings sticking to the back of his sweatshirt and out his messy head of hair. “C’mon in, the water’s fine,” he said, eliciting another bout of giggles. 

“Shouldn’t we just lock him in the car or something?” Meg proposed.

Crowley heaved Castiel up by the shoulders until he appeared somewhat steady, but when he let go, Castiel wobbled where he stood. “What, so he can ruin my upholstery in more creative ways?” 

“Your car’s a piece of shit anyway!”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley motioned for Castiel to stay put and directed Meg under his breath. “Well, don’t just stand there!”

After a moment's hesitation, she trudged over to prop herself under Castiel’s other arm, leading him towards the front door. 

Castiel just lazily grinned down at her as they walked him together. “Is it ‘later’ yet?” 

They led him through the front entryway and down the crowded hall until they stumbled upon a living room that just so happened to have a spare place to sit. Crowley pulled out his phone to send a text message to Gallagher and Meg anxiously bit at her chipped, black nails. The music was too loud and layered and it sounded like random noises clashing together in Castiel’s ears.

With a grounding hand, they lowered him onto the couch, but fuck if it didn’t feel like heaven. Like sitting on a goddamn cloud all to himself.

“Stay here,” Crowley shouted in Castiel’s ear. 

“‘M’not goin’ anywhere,” he mumbled, words overlapping. As Crowley turned towards Meg, Castiel pawed at his sleeve to get his attention. “Wait... I— I can’t feel my legs.” Eyes downturned and pleading, he asked, “Can you just tell me— Do I still have my legs?” 

“No, ‘fraid not, Angel,” Crowley lamented with solemn earnest and Meg swatted his arm. 

“Don’t tell him that, you fucking asshole! You’re gonna freak him out!”

But Castiel was already a little freaked out. The longer he stared, the more their pupils bled black.

Crowley scowled at her, but kept talking, “You have to stay here, because we have to carry your stupid arse around. And the floor is lava so don’t even think about budging. We’ll be back in a jiff.” He thrusted Castiel’s bottle of vodka into his flimsy hands just to give him something to do, a cheap distraction, like a hamster on a wheel, and then they disappeared altogether like a cloud of smoke. Like some sort of fucked up magic trick. 

“Guys? Guys! Come back!” His bloodshot eyes darted around the room, cataloguing his surroundings. 

The floor couldn’t be made of lava, he tried to reason with himself. Crowley must be lying to him because he knew somewhere that was impossible. Floors couldn’t be made of lava. He’d almost convinced himself of it, except when he looked at the wooden slats of the floor they moved like a mirage and he was almost as sure that he saw one of them boil and burst out the corner of his eye; he just couldn’t catch it. And he was suddenly hyper aware of just how many people were in this room with him right now, but the funny thing was, they weren’t even people. Not really. Their faces were too long and their eye sockets were too gaunt. Some of them were bone and drinking cups of blood and there were teeth coming out of their skulls and they were cackling and grinding on one another and Castiel was starting to think it wasn’t really funny at all. That this Here was a lot different than the other Here. 

He didn’t like it here at all. 

“Go ‘way, go ‘way, go ‘way,” he repeated to soothe himself, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling. “You’re not even real.” He closed his eyes to shut them out, but they were imprinted on the backs of his eyelids too in kaleidoscope colors and they seemed to be multiplying. How many eyes did he even have? 

He needed to leave. Go back to that other place where things felt okay, because he could feel his heart stuttering faster against his ribs and the lava was making him too warm. His skin was on fire. There was sweat beading up along his hairline and when he opened his eyes again, the things were staring at him now. 

“What do you want!” 

There were too many of them and the warmth flaring under his skin was getting claustrophobic. When he unclenched his eyes, the living room swam into focus. It was just a living room. He distinctly didn’t want to be in it anymore just on the off chance it changed back into something else.

Castiel slipped off the couch and precariously balanced himself on the Persian rug under the coffee table. If he didn’t focus on it too long, the design stayed fixed and didn’t make him want to vomit. He sagged with relief when he noticed it wasn’t burning him. The carpet must be safe, he told himself. He continued on like that, finding small patches of things to stand on as he made his way further into the house with the naive hope of seeking solace. 

That was when he stumbled upon the bathroom. He slipped inside unnoticed and locked the door behind him. 

Fumbling around in his pockets with shaking hands, he felt around for the baggy again and pulled it out. Maybe he was crashing. Maybe he needed more to get back to that place where everything felt good for once. He shook a small remaining heap onto the bathroom counter and leaned down to sniff it up. It burned. The skin tender flesh inside was already raw. 

Coming back up, his head was spinning and he pinched his eyes against the woozy head rush, but when he opened them again the sight of his bleeding  
black eyes caught in the mirror and scared him shitless. He collapsed on the tile floor then, gathering his limbs close as he rocked under the sink, reciting rapid fire words and phrases. His heart was stuttering too fast to calm himself and his skin broke out in a thin veil of sweat. 

He needed air. 

He pressed himself up against the cool bathroom wall, standing on the very edge of the tile, and with a deep gulp of breath he forced himself back into the pit on hands and knees before he desperately forced himself to stand on terribly shaking limbs to find an exit. 

There were more people out there than before and their faces bordered on unrecognizable at best and monstrous at worst and he couldn’t focus on any one thing to save his life other than the fact that Dean Winchester was stood on the other side of the room, and he could feel his eyes on him. For whatever reason, in a sea of black, Dean’s face was harder to look at than the rest.

*****

Dean would recognize that Zeppelin sweatshirt anywhere. The one with the thumb holes and the broken zipper, and just the slightest bit of fraying around the edges. Afterall, it used to be his. It had the Icarus logo printed on the back, and for some odd reason he was seeing the back of Castiel instead of the front, but Dean would know him anywhere too. He was crowding against the far wall like it was the only thing keeping him from blowing away in the breeze. 

Castiel angled his head to survey the room again. That was when their eyes met by accident and Dean couldn’t help but stare.

He didn’t look right. 

There was just something off about him. 

His eyes were too wide and his movements too stilted. Some distant part of him, the part that might’ve still cared a little bit, wanted to march over there and ask him what was wrong, but he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, and Lisa was tugging on his elbow to get his attention so he gave it to her instead. It wasn’t like this was the first time Castiel showed up at one of these things high off his ass anyway.

Bringing his attention back to the game, Dean landed their ball in Michael’s cup. Lisa whooped and cheered enough for both of them, bringing him down into a loud, smacking kiss. He laughed into it and kissed her back with mustered enthusiasm, until Michael wondered aloud, “Who invited the fucking trailer trash?” 

Dean didn’t need to look back to know who he was referring to, but then Michael was jeering. He was staring in mild disbelief at some foggy point over Dean’s shoulder and he guffawed at whatever he was seeing.

“Bro, what the fuck?”

Curiosity and confusion winning out, Dean turned to face the room, but before he could fully straighten himself out, there was a pressure at his back and two long arms wrapped around, desperately clinging to him like an octopus. 

Lisa went just as stock still as Dean.

His eyes shot down to the hands entwining themselves in his letterman jacket and suddenly his mouth went dry. He knew those hands. He could feel Castiel’s face nuzzling against his back. All eyes were now on the two of them and the attention was nothing short of unsettling. He could feel Castiel pressing against his ass too. That was when he lost it.

“What the fuck, dude! Personal space!” Grabbing hold of his wrists, Dean tried to disentangle himself from Castiel’s grasp, but Castiel was adamant about holding on, fighting the motion and reaching out to grip his jacket even tighter. 

Michael snickered. “Looks like Winchester’s got himself a crush!”

When Dean brusquely flipped to face him, his face was silently, desperately pleading with him to cooperate and, from this close range, Dean could hardly see the bright blue of his irises. Only black pupils and red veins like spiders. His forehead was slicked with beaded sweat and his hands were hot and clammy. It was terrifying and suddenly the embarrassment he felt only moments ago was replaced with legitimate concern.

Eyes searching, Dean asked softer, just for him to hear, “Cas, are you okay?”

Castiel didn’t even blink. Dean didn’t even think he heard him. His wide eyes took stock of each and every inch of his face like he was expecting Dean to just up and vanish from under the weight of his hands, but then he shook his head side to side, in a movement so subtle, Dean almost missed it. It was more like a tremor than anything else. 

“I— I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered, far slower and quieter than Dean could hear over the music. Like his mouth had gone dry too. Like it was a secret between them. “I can’t feel anything.” He looked as though he could cry.

“Right… Uh, hey, it’s gonna be okay, why don’t we grab you a seat, huh?” 

Everyone was still staring and Dean did his best to ignore their probing eyes. He was clearly on something heavy, but fuck if Dean knew what. He gestured for someone to pull up one of the stools and forced Castiel down into it. He didn’t sit as much as collapse into it. 

“You’re burning up. You want some water, man?” 

Without asking, someone was handing him a red solo cup full of water over his shoulder and he offered it to Castiel, who was eyeing it dubiously at best, refusing to drink from it. He flinched at the sight of hands in his periphery and closed his eyes against them, breathing erratically through his nose, like air itself was escaping him. The act of breathing a simple parlour trick. Dean managed to force the cup into his hand, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp it, so he placed it down next to him on the counter. When he tried to lift Castiel’s chin back up to look at him again, he swatted at him petulantly and Dean held his hands up in defense.

“Hey, whoa, we’re good. Calm down,” he cooed to relax him, but it didn’t work. If anything, he just seemed more agitated. 

Benny sidled up beside him appearing concerned himself. “He okay, brother?” 

Suddenly, Michael stood next to them, appraising Castiel with a critical eye. “The fuck’s wrong with Trailer Trash this time?”

Dean glowered at the nickname, “Don’t worry about it.” Castiel’s face looked like a tomato. Motioning towards the sink, he asked, “Will someone get me a wet cloth or something?” 

Lisa pulled at his arm to get his attention. “Dean, baby, maybe we should just leave him alone.” She sounded scared.

“Okay, better question: Why are you playing nursemaid to this fucking faggot?” Michael butted back in. “I’m in the middle of kicking your ass and he’s literally always on something. It’s not like this is news.”

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Dean shouted right around the same time Michael decided to impose himself into Castiel’s space to clap him on the cheek. 

Castiel’s eyes flew open wide to take in the people crowding around him like a caged animal and Michael was there in his face to hunt him down. He looked overwhelmed to say the absolute least. He shrunk back against the wall behind him, whimpering, but Michael didn’t let up. 

“Dude, leave him the fuck alone, you’re freaking him out!”

Michael ignored him. “Yo, Trailer Trash, sober the fuck up and get out of here! Nobody invited you for a reason. And Dean here’s just not that into you.”

“Dude, I said cut it out— Holy shit!”

Without any warning, Castiel suckerpunched Michael in the nose with a sickening crunch and launched himself off the kitchen stool, making a desperate beeline for the sliding glass door. The room erupted in shock and awe and laughter as Michael clutched his bloodied face. Some people whooped and hollered their support, and internally, so did Dean as he stared in disbelief at the blood dropping down the front of Michael’s polo shirt.  
*****  
Castiel slipped out to the deck and lost himself in the dark. There were things out here too, gawking at him, closing in on him, but he sped right past them. He still felt like he was flying, even while his feet stumbled down the steps. Distantly, he heard the sound of his name being echoed. His skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. He pressed on until he came across a shimmering blue shape in the middle of nowhere. An entirely uninterrupted block of light and color. And what was more, there wasn’t anything standing in his way. 

This was good, he thought.

This was real. 

Like a moth to a flame. 

Without even realizing what he was doing, he clumsily stumbled across the lawn towards Gallagher’s swimming pool, sitting in the center of everything like a goddamn oasis. He tripped and fell, but there was nothing there to hold his weight. It took him longer than it should have to realize he fell in at all. He couldn’t even feel anything. Not even the shock of the cold water pricking his skin like razors. There was nothing here besides the calm undulation of the water as his head was engulfed below the surface. The light lapping of the pool skimmers like Castiel’s shallow breathing, forming clusters in front of his face. The blue glow of the pool lights haloing around the edge of his blurred vision. 

Like headlights, maybe. Like tiny beams of light.

The rush of water flowing against him was a thundering racket as he plunged into the deep end. 

His lungs kicked up at the sound and he was bombarded with fragments of wounding images behind his eyelids. Fast moving water. The echo of a car horn being swallowed by the current. The spectral glow of headlights cutting through murky water. 

His parents were up there. He could feel them more than see them, but he couldn’t do anything about it because he was trapped back here, pinned like an insect, and he couldn’t move and before he knew it he was fully submerged underwater. They all were. He was cold, like really fucking cold. And they were dying, but what was he supposed to do? 

He was weightless. 

Just as suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all and things were starting to go dark, like really fucking dark, and it had only just occurred to him again that he didn’t have any fucking legs, and even if he did, he never learned how to swim.

He was sinking down there like a lead weight for what could have been seconds, minutes, but felt like hours, and distantly, over the sound of the water rushing past his eardrums, he could hear someone calling out to him before everything faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀


	5. Chapter 5

“Yo, I think Novak’s dead!”

At the declaration, Dean’s heart jumped into his throat. 

He followed the line of sight and pointed fingers to Gallagher’s pool. The water laid eerily still. 

“Somebody help him!” he cried down to the people on the lawn, to anyone listening; but not a single soul was attempting to fish him out. He had just enough foresight to shrug out of his letterman jacket on the way down the back steps, pushing his way through the crowd, as he bounded across the yard, straight into Gallagher’s pool himself.

The water felt like icicles stabbing his skin. It weighed down his jeans as he plunged deeper, but he drew Castiel in before he’d sank all the way to the bottom. He wasn’t even putting up a fight, just limply floating in the middle of the deep end and the visual did nothing to calm Dean’s fraught nerves. Collecting Castiel in his arms, he couldn’t help notice how light he felt as he kicked them both towards the surface. Time was perhaps the only thing on his side, he hadn’t been down there long, but they emerged, Dean with a rasping, reedy gulp of air and Castiel with none at all. He heaved him up onto the cement pavers with a heaving gasp.

“What’d he take!?” Dean breathlessly barked, but nobody knew. 

“He was just like this when he got here,” someone said from behind him. 

“Castiel! Cas!” Dean shouted, clapping a firm hand against his wet face. But he wasn’t waking up. Shaking him by the shoulders, he rambled more to himself than anything, “C’mon, wake up, you dumb sonuvabitch!” They were both entirely soaked to the bone and dripping water like a steady heartbeat onto the cement. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” 

Though, the mere mention of 9-1-1 had already spread like wildfire through the crowd. Before he knew it, people were scurrying away and Dean was still worrying over Castiel without even the faintest clue what to do next. He was shivering, but right now even that seemed like a miracle. Leaning in, Dean pinched Castiel’s nose closed and blew into his mouth. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The fact their mouths were pressed together like that in front of everybody. About the sheer fucking irony of it all. He repeated these steps like his life depended on it, because in a way, it did. After a few more repetitions, Castiel finally regurgitated the chlorinated water in a bubble that burst over his chin as he twisted on his side and contorted against the ground. 

“He’s- He just swallowed it,” Dean murmured. But he wasn’t with it still. Not really.

“Yo, this shit is fucking crazy!” 

Dean heard a bunch of shit like that. Like “What a fucking idiot!” and “Not even surprised!” interspersed between mocking bouts of laughter. Like this was a show that they were all watching instead of the grim reality and it caused something inside him to snap.

“Would you just fuck off!? He doesn’t know how to swim, you fucking assholes!” The venom came flying out of Dean’s mouth before he could even think to stop it. He didn’t have time to care about the weird looks he got just for knowing that kind of thing about Castiel Novak of all people. 

“Somebody get me a blanket or something,” he ordered over his shoulder through his own chattering teeth. “Get two,” he added, checking Castiel’s pulse with his fingertips. And, thank god, it was persistent. 

Patting down Castiel’s drenched pockets, Dean came up with a soggy wallet, a dead phone, and a prescription pill bottle that rattled in his shaking hands. It was too dark to read the bottle, but he recognized the name ‘Nancy Novak’ on it with little to no problem. He grabbed for the phone first and tried to turn it on to no avail. It wasn’t a reach that his own phone was probably no better off. Digging through the billfolds in the wallet, Dean hoped to find a phone number he could call, anything really, anyone better than the scum he came here with, but all he actually found was twenty bucks, an expired condom, and loose change.

“Does anyone know where Meg Masters is?” 

The first thought Dean had was how the fuck could they just let him do this to himself? But in reality he knew Castiel was like a force of nature. Controlling him was like trying to catch a goddamn hurricane with a butterfly net; Next to impossible and stupid to even try. Nobody let Castiel do anything, he just did them and reaped the consequences later. Yet here Dean was still trying to wake him up as someone unexpectedly dropped a pile of towels next to him on the cement. 

Dean grabbed at the pile and wrapped one haphazardly around his own shoulders before scooping Castiel up off the cement in a heap. He was wet and heavy, but he was breathing, small tendrils of fog exiting his parted lips, and that was the best thing Dean could remember seeing in a long ass time. He just couldn’t seem to remember right now that they weren’t friends, that they didn’t talk, that they weren’t anything to each other anymore and hadn’t been for years. 

None of that mattered right now.

He stripped the soaked sweatshirt off him at the very least. All it was doing was weighing him down and trapping in water. Dean shifted himself to sit on the wet cement and heaved Castiel into a near-sitting position. A soft sound formed in his throat at the jostling, and Dean breathed a little easier at the sound despite the lead weight in his arms. Taking a couple of towels, he draped Castiel’s shoulders and started rubbing his bare skin through the worn terry cloth as the heat from his open mouth warmed the skin of Dean’s shoulder.

Lisa and Benny were orbiting the pool, watching with rapt attention, when Dean looked over to them and visibly heaved a sigh of relief. “He should go to the hospital. I don’t know what he’s on and he could get worse.”

“Doubt anyone here is gonna let paramedics crash the party, brother. ”

“We gotta find Meg then,” he said into the wind, still agitatedly rubbing at Castiel’s back to warm him up. “Someone should bring him home at least-- be there for him when he wakes up.” But when he turned to look at Lisa and Benny again everyone else had fled the scene, suddenly disinterested when it seemed like the junkie was actually going to make it.

Benny glanced around at the emptying yard and shrugged. “Looks like that someone is you, brother.”

“No.” Dean shook his head, unblinking, and then blinking a few times too many when the adrenaline began to wear off. His eyes were wet anew. “No, not me. I can’t.”

“Why not? Y’all used to be friends or whatever. And no offense, but you seem to care more than everybody else here.”

Lisa looked to Benny and then to Dean, confused more than anything else. “Wait, you guys used to be friends!?”

Dean just huffed a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” He thought everybody knew that. He also knew that if Castiel were awake and sober right now, he’d be telling Dean to go fuck himself. He was more sure of that than the sky being blue. “He wouldn’t want me helping him right now.”

“Gotta say, right now, doesn’t look like he gets to be too choosy.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean gave another empty chuckle. “Yeah. Touche.” He contemplated it for a solid minute, but there wasn’t really much to think about. “Fine,” he relented, “Lis, you good? You need a ride home? I can come back after.”

She stared in shock at Castiel’s limp frame for a moment longer, before meeting Dean’s eyes. A combination of emotions crossed her face, but mostly she was still just drunk. Shaking her head, she said, “Um, no, I’m okay. I can get a ride with Michael or something, but call me when you get home?”

Michael. Sure. “Yeah, okay.”

“I hope he’s alright.”

It was the biggest understatement Dean had ever heard in his life, but he knew even if - no, when - Castiel woke up from all this, he hadn’t been alright in a real long time.

Dean tossed her a weak smile. “Me too.”

*****

The ride over to the trailer park was quiet, the radio turned so low it came out as a whisper, but the heat was on full blast. Dean knew the drive like the back of his hand. He checked the rearview too many times all the while to make sure Castiel was still breathing; he wanted to see every breath that tumbled out of his mouth against the backseat. 

The community was quiet too and the rumbling growl of the Impala’s engine cut through the silence like a jagged knife. As soon as he pulled up to the Novak’s old trailer home, he killed the engine and heaved a heavy, grounding breath. 

He hadn’t seen this place in years. 

The aluminum siding was peeling and sun-bleached even in the dark. The grass was overgrown around the cement blocks. The garden gnome was still at attention by the door, hands holding its little ‘welcome’ sign, but he wasn’t welcome here and he knew it.

Dean ran a hand down his face and looked to the backseat. Castiel was still curled in on himself, silently shivering inwards for warmth. How Dean was going to drag him inside all by himself was beyond him, but Nancy would have been long passed out by now. The lights weren’t even on. 

“Fuck,” he breathed on a particularly expressive exhale. 

After all this time, leave it to Castiel to crash back into his life like a fucking comet.

It only took a moment to steel himself, then he was climbing out of the Impala and rounding on the backseat. He opened the door and the whine of the rusted hinges distantly stirred a dog back to life. 

“Castiel,” he murmured softly, jostling the damp leg of his jeans. “You’re home, man. Time to get up.” The steady rise and fall of his chest as the breath tumbled over his lips was a comfort, but then Dean remembered why he was here at all. “Cas—” 

Castiel just groaned a deep, reverberating growl against the leather seat. 

He wouldn’t lie; he was fucking terrified of what he might be like upon waking, but he tried again, voice as gentle as ever. “C’mon, Cas... Please get up. Please.” 

But Castiel didn’t get up, even with the gentle coaxing.

With an exasperated sigh, Dean shut that door, rounded the rear fender, and attempted to drag him out by his shoulders. Castiel’s waterlogged clothes made him even heavier, and without Benny shouldering the extra weight that got him in the backseat, Dean struggled to get him out. Once he hit the gravel, Castiel groaned deeply again and tried to jerk away, but Dean didn’t let him go for fear he’d try to book it again. They struggled together up the walkway and thankfully when they mounted the steps the door was unlocked. Dean really hadn’t planned far enough ahead as to what he would do if it weren’t. Hell, he never planned for any of this. He didn’t even want to go to Gallagher’s in the first place. Right about now though, he was starting to think it was real lucky he did.

“Work with me a little, buddy,” he muttered under his breath as he supported Castiel’s weight through the screen door.

It was dark inside and the air was pungent and stale with the stench of old cigarettes. Dean did his best to navigate their way across the living room towards Castiel’s bedroom with little to no injury, save for almost eating dirt on the braided throw rug under their feet. 

When they got to the bedroom door, Dean stumbled his way into the cramped space and deposited Castiel onto the bed in a wet heap. Straightening out, he faltered at the sight of the glow in the dark stars still stuck to the ceiling. He remembered when Castiel had gotten them, remembered helping him stick them up there. There were the same collection of books and school trophies on the bookshelf too. But instead of those old nerdy posters Dean remembered, there were heavy metal bands and other darker things he didn’t recognize. It was so overwhelmingly familiar and so achingly different at the same time that Dean found himself at a loss. 

He blinked his attention away from his surroundings and wracked his brain on what to do next. 

Castiel was sprawled out on the comforter like a corpse. Wet. Haggard. And like a marble statue, profoundly serene. The dwindling blue moonlight through the blinds hit the edges of his face in such a way that it gave Dean pause. It’d been so long since he’d seen him like this, since he’d bothered to really look. He was vulnerable like this. He wasn’t anything but himself. The notion waxed poetic until Dean snapped himself out of it again. 

Should he change him? 

Was that weird? 

He was wet after all, so it was probably necessary, but something inside him was silently protesting. 

With a gulp, he cleared the voice in his head and got on with it already. He carefully divested Castiel of his boots, his shirt, his pants. He couldn’t bring himself to remove more. He found a clean, oversized t-shirt in the top drawer of the nearby dresser and pulled it on over his shoulders. It would have to do, he supposed. But he still looked cold. Struggling to wrestle it out from under him and feeling utterly ridiculous, Dean tucked the comforter around him and Castiel seemed to breathe a little easier. 

He looked nearly peaceful like this and, softly, he began to snore.

Dean knew he was being creepy now just standing there, watching him. He used to get annoyed with Castiel for doing exactly this back in the day. Now here he was, being a hypocrite. 

He thought about this moment once or twice. What it might be like to be in Castiel’s room again. He wanted to tell him so many things now that he was here, now that they were in the same room and Castiel couldn’t fight him on it. He chewed his lip, trying to hold it all in, eyes turning to the stars above his head, but he felt himself slipping. A whispered, “fuck you,” came out instead. He could feel a thick knot forming in his throat, but he wasn’t about to cry again. He couldn’t. That would be stupid. “Fuck you,” he hissed to the still air.

Before he allowed himself to say anymore, he vanished, taking his thoughts with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please exercise willful suspension of disbelief here. in a real world scenario i'm sure cas would need medical attention, but this is fiction and this route called to me more.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel remembered some things. 

Voices, mostly— Harsh and staccatoed. Calming like a slow-coursing river. 

Pressure in his hands and in his chest. 

The unbearable heat under his skin. 

And… water. There had definitely been water.

Castiel awoke feeling like he'd been hit by a freight train. His head was pounding; his eyes hurt; his chest was sore; and his knuckles were bruised. Upon peeling his eyes open, he found himself curled up in his own bed in a sweat-drenched t-shirt and boxers with no recollection of how he got there. Light crept in through the blinds making him squint and given the state he was in he wasn't entirely convinced that the freight theory was too far off. The incessant ringing in his ears needled its way into his skull so much that the prospect of falling asleep again was near impossible. 

Blearily, he blinked over to his nightstand and groaned. The time on his busted alarm clock read half past 8am. He struggled to sit up, surveying the floor for his jeans, and pulled them closer once he located them, but of course his cell phone was dead. 

He flopped back on the bed with a low groan. 

“Water,” he garbled to himself, throat parched. “Need water.”

Dragging himself to his feet, he trudged across the living room towards the fridge and opened it so harshly it jostled the contents on the door. He grabbed the first container of drinkable liquid and drank it straight out of the container as he scoured for something edible as well, though that endeavor proved fruitless. With a put-upon sigh, he slammed the door and took another swig of orange juice, though he had to wipe it from the front of his shirt when he saw the date on the calendar.

“Fuck,” he spat. It was already Monday. 

*****

By the time he got to school on his rusted-out three-speed, he was sweating through his shirt again. He arrived just after the second class period ended and he couldn’t say he’d really missed the place. Dropping his bicycle at the bike rack, Castiel braced himself for a partial day of sitting through classes he didn’t really care about and gaining critical looks from people he didn’t really care about either. But he was alive, he guessed, and that had to be something. 

The finer points of Saturday night were a disingenuous blur, but he knew enough about himself to know he’d gotten fucked up on something entirely new to him. 

He managed to slip into third period English without issue. Today was a double, and that was just his luck. Apparently word around the hallways was that he’d died at Gallagher’s party, so when he walked into the classroom his presence was met with calculated awe and gravitas like the second coming of Jesus. He slumped himself down in his usual back row seat, opened his tattered copy of Moby Dick, and took a well-deserved nap for the next hour or so as Ms. Hester droned about the nature of the allegory.

No one said anything about it. 

Well, not to his face, at least.

He couldn’t help notice that Winchester wasn’t in class either. 

When the bell rang, he pushed through the brain fog and promptly rose, ignoring the way his head still swam. He stalked down the crowded corridor and past the swarm of curious eyes until he came to his locker and fumbled with the combination lock. It finally clicked open after ten tries, and just as it did, another bell echoed down the hall, signalling first lunch. He contemplated the pros and cons of actually attending Chemistry afterwards, but before he made his decision, a familiar set of hands wrapped around him from behind, flirtatiously fiddling with his belt buckle. 

Castiel bristled at the touch. “Meg,” he exasperated by way of greeting, barely concealing his irritation.

“What? No kiss?”

He rolled his eyes, brusquely shoving a thick, pristine textbook in his messenger bag, but turned around in her arms to plant a cold, chaste kiss on her awaiting lips. “Hello, Meg,” he said with only a hairsbreadth less irritation.

“Clarence,” she purred. “Where have you been all weekend?”

He never did understand why she insisted on calling him that.

With a huff, Castiel zipped up his bag and threw it over his shoulder. “Not that you care, but apparently I died at Gallagher’s party. Thanks for coming to my funeral.”

Her eyes widened minutely, like she really had no fucking clue, and that was a really nice touch. Really sold the concern. 

“Well, I’m with you now,” she offered without apology at which Castiel had to scoff. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Is this the part where I say ‘you’, or are you genuinely asking?”

“Why can’t it be both?” 

Castiel rolled his eyes again at that, biting his tongue 

“You’re grumpy again. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he lied and she accepted it for what it was. She always accepted his lies for what they were. 

She slipped her hands into the back pockets of his jeans and tugged him closer. “In that case… We’re going to Al’s again later if you want to tag along.” 

“Al’s? You mean the fucker that clearly slipped you tainted drugs? I’m actually allowed there now? What day is it again?”

Without further acknowledgment, she answered, “Monday.”

And shit, he really lost a whole day.

“I’m busy,” was all he could think to say. It was all he ever said, in his defense, but he usually reserved that excuse for Fridays.

“Busy, huh? What is it this time?”

“The ‘what’ isn’t important.”

Skeptically, she peered at him through narrowed slits. “Sure, Clarence. Whatever you say.”

“Yeah, like I said. Busy. Now c’mon, I’m fucking starving,” he said, stalking his way towards the cafeteria. 

Castiel thanked every god in the sky that it was grilled cheese day today, because truth be told, grilled cheese was one of the select few palatable items the school cafeteria produced. He got two servings of it and a cup of tomato soup and scarfed it down like he hadn’t eaten for the better part of a week. Because he hadn’t, because he was on the verge of vomiting for most of it. And even then, they hadn’t done any grocery shopping, which Castiel found honest to god ridiculous, considering Nancy worked at the fucking Piggly Wiggly. 

He ate his food in silence and shouldered his ‘girlfriend’s’ meager attempts at conversation. Frustrated, he was struggling to tear into a carton of 2% milk, when he sensed eyes on him from the other side of the cafeteria. 

Of course it was Winchester. It was always Winchester. 

He must’ve just slipped in for the first time today given just how enthusiastic the table of jocks seemed to be at his presence. 

Refraining an eyeroll, Castiel leaned in and captured Meg’s lips in a sad, sloppy distraction. Just until he was sure he no longer had an audience, then he returned to his task. The milk burst and flooded his lunch tray as his fingers finally tore into the paper. Castiel heaved another heavy put-upon sigh, wiped the splatters from the front of his shirt with a napkin, and ate the soggy cookie from his tray in utter annoyance. 

“We should get outta here,” suggested Meg as lunch period was drawing to a close. “Crowley’s off today, we could make him drive us around. Go somewhere.” The glint in her eye suggested one of two things and Castiel wanted nothing to do with either of them right about now. 

He contemplated as he chewed. He hummed as he swallowed. Unsurprisingly, the decision he came to was, “No.”

“Right. You’re too busy.” 

She emphasized the word as though it weren’t within the realm of possibility that Castiel had anything better to do with his time than lounge around on their second-hand sofa and fuck himself up. He didn’t, but it was the principle of the thing. And on any other day, hell maybe even last week, he would’ve done it too. Stuck himself with something or sniffed dust or smoked whatever was burning, but today was Monday. It was a new week, and call him crazy, but he just really wasn’t looking to spend quality time with the two people that supposedly left him for dead. That same sense of dread was still lingering in the center of his chest. 

“I’m going to Chemistry,” he declared abruptly, ignoring her and dumping his soggy remainders into the garbage bin.

He was halfway to the lab when it occurred to him in all his brilliance that he’d forgotten to actually grab his notebook. With a straining eye roll, he rounded back down the stairwell towards his locker and jimmied with the lock against his ear until he heard that telltale click. Just as he opened it and began reaching for the green notebook on top of the stack, his locker door abruptly slammed shut nearly crushing his fingers. The metallic clang ricocheted down the empty corridor and split Castiel’s persistently dull headache into something sharp and blinding.

“Hey, Trailer Trash. Funny seeing you alive.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and turned to face Michael, who was donning a pair of aviator sunglasses to disguise a very obviously broken nose. He had two other guys from the football team with him who hung back like a sad excuse for bodyguards. The fact he felt he needed them was humorous enough as it were.

“Funny seeing you surrounded by guys,” Castiel retorted flatly. “Do you all take turns being on the bottom, or…?”

“Yeah, says the fruit!” 

“Creative,” he deadpanned. “Especially since I probably get laid more than all of you combined.”

He was cut off by a fist punching him directly in the solar plexus. The air left his lungs and he crashed against the lockers with another reverberating clang as the two buffoons pinned him in place. Blinking hard, he shook his head to clear his vision and looked Michael squarely in one of his two faces, his own contorting with unconcealed rage. “What the fuck was that for!”

“That’s for this,” Michael said, gesturing to his nose. “And this is for being a poor, pathetic piece of shit.”

Castiel’s stomach dropped and lurched as Michael’s fist collided with his gut. The grip on his wrists tightened painfully. The friction burned his skin as he twisted to free himself. 

“What, you’re not gonna fight back?” He sneered. “Fucking good-for-nothing faggot.” 

Castiel’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. His skin was burning. He balled his fists up so tightly his knuckles cracked. Pushing off the lockers with all his mustered strength, he knocked the two restraining him off balance. His sights were set on Michael alone, who visibly shrank once Castiel’s limbs were free. 

“What did you just call me?” he growled through gritted teeth.

“You heard me,” Michael said, raising his chin in a weak attempt at bravado. “Why don’t you suck my dick, you useless Faggot?

The sharp crack of Michael’s nose rebreaking echoed louder than his cries. The blood poured slowly like ribbons between his fingers, seeping down the front of his letterman jacket. Castiel didn’t register the two behind him attempting to grab for him before he launched himself at Michael, bringing him down like a ton of bricks against the freshly waxed linoleum floor. He didn’t register the sound of Michael’s yelping. He didn’t register the fact that his hands hurt from the sheer force of his punches, his bones colliding with bones. He didn’t register when someone else turned the corner to the hallway.

“Hey!” They shouted, followed by thundering footsteps. “HEY! GET OFF OF HIM!”

Michael raised his open palms in pathetic defense and Castiel’s free hand automatically went searching for the pocketknife he kept tucked away in his boot. Just as the blade snapped out and tickled under Michael’s chin, it was out of his grip, skittering away down the hall, and Castiel was being roughly dragged to his feet, boots screeching across the floor. He met the lockers again in a daze, a strong forearm pressed into his throat as Michael scrambled to his feet with legitimate fear in his eyes. 

“Go,” bellowed an all-too-familiar voice. Dean gestured to Michael and the others sharply with his chin. “Get the fuck out of here!” 

The three of them didn’t need to be told twice. They were up and running within seconds like the cowards that they were. Castiel was still seething with rage, his nostrils flaring as he took in unsteady breaths against the force of Dean’s arm on his throat. And then Dean’s eyes were on him like shooting daggers and he stopped breathing altogether.

“What are you, fucking high?” Dean balked. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Castiel’s fingers snaked around his forearm on primal instinct, but Dean’s pressure was unrelenting. “Get the fuck off me,” he gritted out, “Or else—”

“Or else, what! You gonna try to stab me too!?”

“Or else I’m gonna asphyxiate, you fucking moron,” he gasped between labored breaths.

Castiel held the weight of his stare serenely and unflinching. Dean’s twisted face ironed out and he blinked, eyes flitting between Castiel’s piercing glare, the flare of his nostrils, the thin line of his mouth, and his bobbing throat. 

He gulped in a sharp, ragged breath the second Dean relented.

Just then, the door to the stairwell swung open. “Hey! You two,” shouted Vice Principal Adler, and Dean fell back. Castiel rubbed his sore throat and reluctantly averted his glare from Dean to the bald man currently charging at them like an angry bull. “Why aren’t you two in class?”

Castiel parted his lips to speak, but it was Dean’s voice that came out instead. “Just a small disagreement, sir,” he said breezily, “Got a little carried away.” His eyes darted to the pocketknife glinting under a nearby locker, but he quickly composed himself.

“A disagreement,” Mr. Adler parroted snidely, as he eyed them both with suspicion. “What disagreement is so important that it couldn’t have been had over lunch?”

“That’s what we were disagreeing on,” chimed Castiel, much to his and Dean’s apparent surprise. “I ate his grilled cheese. He’s very protective over his food..”

Mr. Adler gave them both a blank stare like he almost bought the bullshit story they were trying to weave, but instead he gave them a patronizing smile. “I don’t care. You’ve both earned yourselves a weeks detention.”

“I have football practice this week, sir,” Dean argued weakly, setting his jaw, but Adler either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. 

“Both of you go wait in the office! Mr. Winchester goes first. We’ll deal with you later, Chuckles,” he warned lowly to Castiel before stalking off down the hall.

It could have been worse, Castiel thought to himself. He could’ve seen the knife. 

*****

Headphones snugly in place, Castiel selected the first thing his thumb landed on and hit play. Some rock song heavy on guitar, good for drowning out the idle din of clacking keys and fluttering paper. Castiel had been slumped over in this hard, plastic chair for the better part of twenty minutes, boredly flicking through a shitty playlist on his music player as he watched the clock ticking across the room. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the brick wall behind him.

After another handful of minutes passed by, he got that uncanny feeling he was being watched again. He cracked an eye open, to see Mrs. Barnes waiting expectantly as Dean slid by her in the doorway, giving Castiel his best unforgiving glare.

Mirthlessly, Castiel snorted to himself.

“Castiel?”

“Over here,” he grumbled, like they were playing some politically correct version of Marco Polo. He pointedly ignored the eyes still on him as he rose to his feet. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he slipped past her through the door. “Good to see you again, Pamela,” he snarked as he passed by, “You’re looking well.” 

Crossing the room, he took his usual seat on the other side of her desk. At least this seat was cushioned. His ass was starting to go numb out there and he told her as much.

She shook her head as she took a seat in her fancy, swivelling desk chair. “You know, that’s what I like about you,” she mused.

“What, my ass?”

She laughed to herself at that as she turned her attention to her computer again. “No,” she said, “The fact I can expect a snide remark out of you just about as much as I can expect you to be waiting outside my office.”

“You’re calling me predictable?”

“No, not at all.” She quirked her lips and smiled. “Consistent is a better word.”

“Consistent is Predictable’s positive cousin,” he mimicked. It sounded like something Mrs. Barnes had said to him before.

“You got it. Consider that your positive life lesson for the day.” She laughed at herself and he rolled his eyes. “Anyway. So, Castiel, how are you?”

He blinked and looked around the small office. “How am I?”

“Yeah. You know, generally speaking. How's life at home these days? How are your classes? I know this time of year tends to be difficult for you.”

“Like you actually care,” he scoffed. “I know what this is about, so do us both the favor and spare me.”

“You’re a smart guy. Dean gave me the gist already.”

Cautiously, he asked, “What was the gist?”

“That you two got a little riled up in the hall.”

Castiel hummed, toying with the knife in his pocket. “Call me crazy, but I doubt you asked me here to flirt, and you know I’m not going to talk to you about anything, so can we skip all this and get to the point?”

“You’re perceptive too,” she noted with a smirk. On the computer screen, she pulled up a record for one ‘Castiel Novak’ and angled the screen towards him. How she managed to do all this blind was still a mystery to him, but he stopped questioning her witchcraft a long time ago. She gestured halfway down the screen. “Read this line to me.”

“Isn’t that what the voice option is for?” 

If he could see behind her sunglasses, she’d probably be shooting him daggers too. “Humor me.”

After another second, he relented, scooting forward in his seat. “Fine.” It was his collective tardies and absences since the start of the new school year a few weeks ago. He read it aloud to her in an overly-enthused, mocking tone of voice and rolled his eyes again. “What about it?”

“You don’t see a problem with these numbers?”

“No.” 

“Really? You don’t think being tardy almost every other day is an issue? Not to mention, you’ve been unaccounted for at least five days already without any notice or a note from your doctor.”

Castiel leaned back in his chair and sighed into his hand. “What about it?”

“Well, it’s unsustainable, for one thing. The school year’s only just started.”

“So?”

“So… I gotta ask again, because it’s my job and because despite what you might think, I do actually care. How’s everything at home?” 

Castiel still didn’t answer.

She sighed, turning the computer screen back towards herself and, mimicking his posture, leaned back in her desk chair. Hands crossed over her middle, she saw him without even looking. Somehow her stare always worked to unsettle him. 

“Castiel, I’m going to level with you,” she said. “It’s your senior year.”

“Thank you, I’m well aware.”

Pursing her lips, she nodded. “One more year left and then you get to graduate. You would like to graduate with your peers, wouldn’t you?”

“Truthfully? I couldn’t care less.”

She practically cackled at that and Castiel frowned at her reaction. “Well, that’s just simply not true.”

“No?”

“No,” she reasserted, like she knew everything.

“And how would you know?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re here, aren’t you? You might be late, but you still show up,” she reasoned. “You keep coming back here, so you must feel some sense of obligation.”

It was a low blow, but not entirely untrue. Mostly he just didn’t have anything better to do. 

“You’ve already got a year up on everyone else. You’re going to be nineteen soon, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like to get the hell outta here? Start doing something better with yourself?” 

Castiel bit out a scathing laugh, but he didn’t dignify it with a response. He wasn’t doing anything with himself, graduated or not. He was going to rot inside his tin can coffin just like his aunt, pickling his liver and frying his brain cells. Hell, he was probably already halfway there at this rate. 

“You know, I still remember our first meeting. Freshman year, before you decided we were enemies. You remember it?”

The clock hand on the other side of the room twitched and the intermittent ticking was starting to get under his skin a little bit. He let his solid boot drop to the floor and grunted in the affirmative. He knew where this conversation was headed, it wasn’t even the first time they’d had it, but he’d honestly rather dive headfirst off a cliff than participate in it again. 

“What did you say to me then?” 

Absently, he watched as a bee pollinated a blue hydrangea just outside her office window. It seemed a lot more interesting than anything he might’ve said four years ago.

At his stubborn, resilient silence, she filled in the blanks for him. “You told me you wanted to go to college. You told me you wanted to get a degree in Astrophysics and become a scientist. You can still do that.” 

Reaching across the desk, she offered him a flier and he took it, halfheartedly scanning over the page with a huff. “Tutoring,” he scoffed. “Really? So now you think I’m stupid?”

“Like I’ve told you hundreds of times, you’re a smart guy, Castiel. You just need to start applying yourself again.”

The chair screeched against the cheap linoleum and he abruptly got to his feet. “Look, Pamela, I’m not interested in taking a trip down memory lane, okay? So if that’s all this meeting is, then I think I’m all set. It would be easier for you to just expel me.”

Her entire being seemed entirely unsurprised at his sudden outburst. Maybe he really was predictable or consistent, or whatever the fuck she seemed to think she knew about him. “That’s fine,” she said, “I think we’re finished anyway. But I’m not giving up on you, kid.” 

Disbelievingly, Castiel shook his head and headed for the door, the flier still clutched in his fist. 

“Just remember, you have the rest of the year to turn yourself around. I still believe you can do it.”

“Yeah, well that makes one of us,” he muttered under his breath, swinging the door open. In his haste to escape, he came crashing into a solid body waiting just on the other side of the door and the air rushed out of his lungs not for the first time this afternoon.

“Shit— Sorry.”

Of course it was Winchester again, standing in his way of all places, ‘inconspicuously’ perusing the colorful fliers tacked on the bulletin board. 

Castiel scowled. “What, were you fucking eavesdropping?”

“Just needed to ask her something else, dude,” he was quick to explain. Too quick in Castiel’s opinion. “You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” he added disdainfully. 

They were about a foot apart, pressed into the doorway, and Dean was just standing there. Staring at him and not staring at him. Throat working as he gulped. Lips flapping like a fish on dry land as he figured out how to make sound come out of it. The weight of his gaze was unnerving and it crawled under Castiel’s skin deeper and far more swiftly than anything else had today. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he found himself saying, “Just fucking move.”

Dean’s neutral expression turned sour in an instant, but he conceded. Hands finding their way into the pockets of his khakis, he angled himself flush with the wall. A subtle blush crept up his ears and down the nape of his neck as Castiel shouldered past him. 

“Hey, Cas, wait—” Dean said, but Castiel kept on walking. 

*****

The late afternoon sun was blazing down, warming the asphalt as Castiel made his way towards the bike rack. As expected, detention was utterly pointless. He spent the time folding origami out of his notes and flicking them in the trash barrel at the front of the room, all the while feeling Dean Winchester’s unrelenting gaze pierce the back of his head. When they were dismissed, Castiel bolted to avoid him, but it didn’t work. 

“Cas, wait,” he called out again, but Castiel didn’t this time either. 

“Winchester, I gotta admit, I'm flattered,” he called over his shoulder, “but I'm really not interested.” 

Halfway across the parking lot, Dean’s fist tangled in the back of Castiel’s shirt as he caught up to him. “Jesus Christ, Cas! I said fucking wait,” he exasperated, catching his breath. 

Castiel violently shrugged out of his hold and turned on him, seething again. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You wanna tell me about whatever that was back there?”

“Not at all, actually,” he snubbed. “Imagine that.”

“No, you tell me what the hell is going on with you! Tell me why you’re acting like a massive fucking idiot all of a sudden.”

“Wait a minute…” Castiel chuckled to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is this an alternate reality? Is Dean Winchester of all people asking me if I want to talk?”

“Yeah, I am. No need to be a fucking dick about it. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass for two seconds you’d realize I’m trying to fucking help you!”

“Help me,” he mocked. “This is a joke right? Are there cameras hiding in the bushes or something?” Castiel scanned the empty parking lot and laughed. 

Roughly slinging his bag over his shoulder, Castiel stalked towards the bike rack only to find that his three-speed was nowhere to be found. And wasn’t that just the cherry on top of another day in his shitty life? He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and counted to ten. When he opened them, he could still feel Dean hovering behind him in that expectant way of his. Just waiting for the world to fall at his feet.

“You seen Meg around?”

“...No,” Dean said, eyebrows screwing up, “What are you even still doing with her anyway? She’s bad fucking news.”

“She's still got my weed,” he reasoned with a shrug, “And I need a ride home.”

Dean balked. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. What did you just say?”

“My weed,” he enunciated, “You know maryjane... ganja... the devil’s lettuce... Fuck, I could really use that right now.”

“Oh man something is broken in you,” Dean sneered. His fists gripped the straps of his bag while his mouth twisted into a wry grin. 

Castiel tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

“You're not even down yet,” Dean spat, “I can tell by the whites of your fucking eyes! And now you're already trying to get high again? This isn’t you, Cas! Do you hate yourself so much you can’t stand to be sober for two friggin’ minutes!?”

“Since when do you care!? Last I checked, we're not fucking friends, Dean!”

“Oh, don't even pull that!” Dean scrubbed a hand down his quickly reddening face and suddenly he was in Castiel’s space again, glowering down at him. “You think I don’t care? Huh? You think I’m the asshole? How the fuck do you think you even got home from Gallagher’s party the other night? You think you just fucking flew?” He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh wait, that’s right, you were so out of it, you probably do. That’s some fucking girlfriend you got there, fucking ditched your ass and left you for dead! So tell me, _Castiel_ , if I don’t care, why was I the only one fishing your ass out of the goddamn pool?” 

Castiel blinked up at him, throat dry and thick. The words sunk into his gut like a fist. He wet his lips carefully and swallowed before clarifying, “Meg's not my girlfriend. She's just a girl that likes sucking my dick and I like letting her.” 

Dean’s eyes widened and he gave one hollow laugh. “Wow, Cas, that's beautiful,” he spat, “You should write greeting cards.”

“Yeah. And what's your excuse, huh,” Castiel retaliated. “What do you tell yourself whenever you’re with Lisa? Does she know yet, Dean?”

Dean’s face hardened. “Know what?”

“That you have to picture her with a mustache just to stay hard.”

Dean shook his head, expression unchanging. “That’s real nice, Cas. Yeah, I'll take that as a thank you for saving your ass more than once. You're fucking welcome by the way.” 

“Well I never asked you to! You should've just let me fucking drown!” 

And then Dean was rounding on him again, face so close Castiel could feel the heat radiating off him. “I’m sorry, you never asked me to? You never asked me to!? _You_ approached _me_!” He emphasized it with a hard shove to Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel stumbled back. “You're the one that latched onto me like a leech in the middle of Gallagher’s kitchen asking me for help! So don't even go there either, you stupid jackass!”

It wasn’t as though Castiel could remember, but he found he believed him anyway. He looked to the asphalt then, nostrils flaring Dean’s to match. “I need a ride,” he snapped, voice strained.

“Are you shitting me?”

Castiel looked to the spot his bike should have been. “Well, it appears your friends have stolen mine.” 

Dean groaned. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

*****

The flashing lights had them idling at the train tracks that cut through the center of town. Dean was silently seething at Castiel’s apparent ambivalence as if it weren’t Castiel’s brilliant decision making that got both of them into this mess. He resolved to stare at the road ahead biting his tongue, not willing to give Castiel the attention he so obviously was craving, but he made the mistake of a haphazard glance only to find Castiel was sat with a smug look upon his face. The sight only grated on him more. 

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Castiel drolled.

“What is?”

“The fact there’s absolutely nothing worth listening to in this entire music collection.”

Castiel was aggravating on a normal day with his stupid, borderline-reckless behavior and his obnoxiously snarky responses, but this day had been trying Dean’s last shred of patience since the moment he woke up and he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with it anymore. 

“Would you quit touching everything,” he reprimanded, drawing the box of tapes closer to his side of the bench seat, “You’re acting like a friggin’ child.”

But Castiel looked far from chastised, if not a little bored. He lazily held his hands up to his shoulders and dribbled out an apology as insincere and scathing as ever. 

Dean scowled. “Because of you,” he fumed, “I missed chemistry and football practice— the two things I can’t fucking afford to miss— all because you’re too stupid not to bring a fucking knife to school! So really, thank you, Castiel. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Green,” Castiel muttered, one eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“The light is green.”

Suddenly, a blaring honk from the grey sedan behind them startled Dean back to reality. And the reality was that this was the second time in the last week that Castiel Novak had found a way back into his car. What were the odds? Was it twisted that right about now he preferred the unconscious version? Dean hit the gas harder than necessary and sped through the center of town. 

Halfway there, it started to drizzle. The windshield wipers skidded across the glass as Dean chanced another glance over at Castiel. “This is probably a stupid question,” he hedged, “But any idea what I missed in English this morning?”

Castiel frowned and met his eyes for a moment, clearly confused. “What makes you think I was awake in English?”

With an acerbic laugh, Dean replied, “Nothing, actually. That’s why it was a stupid question. But, hey, whatever, don’t worry about it. Not like I need to maintain my GPA to get a scholarship or anything.”

Dumbly staring out the window at the rolling rural cemetery as it passed, Castiel just snorted. “It was one day, Drama Queen. I think your precious GPA will survive.”

“Funny. Yeah, you know, not all of us have the privilege of fucking off all day. Some of us actually have to go to class sometimes.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone that apparently missed most of his classes today. Take a left up here,” he said, before Dean could get in a rebuttal.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean snapped back, slapping his directional on and almost missing the turn. “You might not remember, but I’ve already driven you home this week.”

“That’s right. My apologies. Next time, I’ll make sure I drown to spare you the trouble of driving me home again,” Castiel replied wryly.

Sheepishly, Dean blushed. The heat spread to the tips of his ears and he swallowed hard, clenching his jaw as he gripped the leather steering wheel tighter. “S’not what I meant,” he forfeited.

The rest of the ride was painfully quiet. Dean found Pine Hill in the daylight just as easily as he had in the dark. There were dogs barking and children playing in the rain, the smell of petrichor and burning leaves, and that one couple a few lots down that never seemed to resolve an argument even still.

Some people really never did change. 

The wet gravel crunched under his tires as Dean crept up to the Novak’s trailer. All the more disparaged and forgotten in the dwindling light of the early evening. The clarity was striking. Castiel eagerly reached for the car door handle before Dean even shifted into park. 

“Hey, Cas, wait a minute,” Dean said, and for some reason this time he did, if only for a moment. “I, uh, shouldn’t have said that shit before. I’m, um… I’m glad you’re okay.”

Castiel blinked at him. Surprise shifted quickly into disinterest as his hand gripped the handle tighter. “Save it for someone who cares, Winchester.”

Dean’s face was set in stone, but when the car door slammed shut, he winced. Still, he watched Castiel shield himself from the rain and up the front walk before he put her in reverse and drove home.


End file.
